Crises of Midlife
by Little Polveir
Summary: Shelagh copes with the challenges of life brought by a much older husband, absent friends and grown up children.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**

**This story is based partly on the characters from Jennifer Worth's life, partly on those formed by HTMG's wonderful writing, and partly on characters from my life (hope that is not breaking fandom etiquette.) The story begins in 1979. Not sure how this is going to go down, so reviews, good or bad, would be appreciated.**

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The last Saturday in June was a bright and sunny one, the sort of day that a person should spend out of doors. But that morning, boredom had led Shelagh to deep clean the house, even though she always kept it immaculate. The kitchen, living room, hallway, stairs and bathroom were complete, before she turned her attention to the bedrooms, beginning with hers and Patricks, then moving on to the empty ones.

She switched the Vacuum cleaner off and stared around what had once been Timothy's bedroom. It had been redecorated and the furniture replaced over the last few years, so all evidence that this had room had belonged to a teenage boy was now long gone, as was the teenage boy. Her son was now a man in his early thirties, a successful barrister, married for four years with a second child on the way, and living in Carlisle.

"Carlisle of all places, could he have gone any further from East London?" Shelagh thought.

Timothy had met Lucy, a native of the Lake District, whilst he and his university friends were on what he had described as a "walking and drinking holiday." Lucy was a barmaid in one of the places they had stopped and they immediately hit it off. They kept in touch whilst Timothy was still at Cambridge, and when he was qualified, he arrived at the pub one night and proposed. They then married, and settled down in a large newly built house in a quiet area of town. They used to visit Patrick and Shelagh regularly but since they had their son, Robert, the visits became less frequent. They had not been down since last Christmas. Shelagh had offered many times to come and look after Robert, and whilst Timothy was agreeable, Lucy was never so keen. Shelagh suspected that Lucy preferred to have her own mother, rather than the mother-in-law she had only met occasionally, look after her son. Deep down, Shelagh understood Lucy's attitude, but no amount of understanding could ease the sadness in her heart.

Shelagh pulled the Vacuum cleaner back out onto the landing and went to open the door of the third bedroom. She put her hand on the door, its paint was chipped and the wood had several long thin cracks in it as a result of being slammed shut repeatedly. She sighed before opening the door to what was Angela's bedroom.

"Is Angela's bedroom," she corrected herself, though more in hope than in truth.

Shelagh stole a quick look around the room. Unlike Timothy's room, Angela's bedroom still bore evidence of the girl to whom it belonged. The walls were still covered in the posters which she had pinned to it, the faces of ABBA, Queen, The Rolling Stones, a shirtless, toned, male model reclining on the bonnet of a flame-red Ferrari and the blue-shirt-and-tiny-short clad Chelsea football team beamed back at Shelagh from the faded images. Her books and cassettes were still neatly stacked, a few items of clothing remained in her wardrobe, including the lilac satin dress she had worn when she was the Maid of Honour at Timothy and Lucy's wedding. Several drawers and doors of the bedroom furniture were open, just as she had left them. The teddy bear which they had bought her as a newborn lay discarded by the bed, knocked to the floor as she left the room for the last time. A layer of dust had settled over everything during the past eighteen months, but Shelagh could not face cleaning it. The dust cradled memories, memories of all that had happened in that room, she could not sweep it away, she could not dispel them into ethereal clouds. She sighed, bit her lip to stop her tears and closed the door behind her.

Shelagh went downstairs into the living room to where Patrick was sitting slumped into the corner of the sofa. He was holding his newspaper close to his face trying to read the small print, but his failing eyes and shaking hands were making it almost impossible.

"Shelagh," he slurred, "can you read this to me please."

"Yes of course darling," Shelagh responded, taking the paper from him, unfurling the edges crumpled by his tight grip and began to read.

Reading the newspaper to her husband had become a regular feature in Shelagh's life. Patrick had retired at sixty-five, tired and ready for a rest but apparently healthy. They had begun to form plans of how they would spend his retirement, travelling the world, making up for all the time they had had to be apart thanks to his work commitments. But Patrick's diagnosis less than a year later dashed those plans asunder. Shelagh knew her husband was always forgetful, so she barely noticed his memory getting worse. He had always suffered aches and pains, which he put down to the effects of forty years of hard work, so he did nothing more than take a few aspirins to deal with the constant pain he was in and carried on. He had been wearing spectacles for years but without case notes and medical journals to read, he did not notice the marked deterioration in his vision. His handwriting had always been illegible and now he was no longer working he had very little need to write anything longer than a shopping list. They only noticed the pronounced tremor in his hand when he failed one morning to lift his cup of tea from the breakfast table. The neurologist at the London later confirmed their worst fears.

"What have you been doing this morning?" Patrick asked when Shelagh had finished reading the articles he had asked her to.

"I've given the house a good clean" Shelagh replied.

"Why didn't you go outside?" Patrick replied, "It's sunny."

"I needed to do things inside, dear," Shelagh replied gently, "but they're done now."

"Well let's go out this afternoon," Patrick said, "I could drive you to Nonnatus, pick anyone who is free and we could go into the countryside."

A few silent tears leaked from the corners of Shelagh's eyes as she held her husband's old tired hand, gently stroking it with her thumb.

"Patrick," she sobbed, "you're not allowed to drive anymore, and Nonnatus House was closed last year, the Sisters were all moved back to the Mother House in Chichester, remember?

Patrick's tired eyes looked in the vague direction of Shelagh's. She knew he was trying to remember, but knew he was failing.

"Oh, oh, yes, of course I remember," Patrick snapped irritably.

"We could have lunch in the garden," Shelagh suggested, "then we could both enjoy the sun. And I think we have some ice cream left if you would like some for pudding?"

"That sounds," Patrick paused, searching for the words, "tickerty-boo and marvellous."

Shelagh smiled, it had been a long time since her husband had described anything as "tickerty-boo and marvellous." She knew she had not lost him yet.

As she prepared lunch, Shelagh thought about Nonnatus House. Although she personally had not resided in 'new' Nonnatus House, the memories she had of the people of Nonnatus House would never leave her. Naughty, bubbly and sassy Trixie was now married to Reverend Hereward, and enjoying the quiet life of a vicar's wife in a pretty country parish with their children, how times change! Clever and pretty Jenny was now a music teacher, with two beautiful girls. They were a few years younger than Angela and when they used to meet while the Worth's were still living in London, Angela considered them as her sisters; the sisters that no amount of hope and prayers could give her. Wonderful and hardworking Chummy and devoted Peter had gone back to Africa to work with Christian Aid, taking their boys, then in their teens, and a campervan with all their worldly possessions with them. Quiet and gentle Cynthia had joined the Order, but never made her final vows, and in her late thirties had married Roger, an Oxford academic. And Patsy, a girl Shelagh was always a little unsure of, had moved to New York with a close female friend and, from what Shelagh had heard, was enjoying every minute of big city life.

Shelagh wrote regularly to Sister Julienne after Nonnatus House was closed, but had yet to find the time or the courage to visit her in Chichester. Sister Julienne's most recent letter told her that Sister Evangelina was now very frail, unable to do very much more than be pushed around in her wheelchair, how Sister Winifred, the shy and slightly simpering girl who Shelagh first met when Sister Julienne was ill, was hoping to be elected Reverend Mother, and how she, Sister Julienne, was missing Poplar and that Chichester was far too quiet. Shelagh had sighed on reading this, wondering whether it was only Poplar she was missing. Sister Julienne had continued to act as her mother figure long after she had left the Order, and now that she was not within walking distance, Shelagh missed her terribly, but the elder nun seemed to rarely acknowledge that side of their relationship in writing. Perhaps, like Nonnatus House itself, it belonged to a different time and place.

Shelagh had a sudden revelation. "I'm lonely," she thought.

Her friends from Nonnatus had all left London, her children were far from home and as her children moved on so did the friends and acquaintances she had made through them. She had run Poplar Choral Society diligently for over fifteen years, but the pressures of caring for Patrick had led to her relinquishing her role. She still attended choir practice when she could, but choir practice is not somewhere for chatting, and Shelagh, never being one for the pub, never went for a post-rehearsal drink with the others. And her husband, poor Patrick, although he was physically there, he was rarely completely there in mind or spirit these days. It had certainly been many years since Shelagh felt that they were truly husband and wife.

As she waited for the last of the things for lunch to finish cooking, she flicked through the pages of Patrick's newspaper. She reached the Classified Advertisements and whilst her eyes had floated over "Man-with-a-Van" and "Puppies for Sale" another, quite sizeable section focused their attention. There must have been ten or twelve separate requests underneath the heading "Accommodation Required." Several were students looking for digs for the next academic year, but others appeared to be people who were working in the area. She cast her mind back to the emptiness of the rooms adjacent to hers and Patrick's and an idea formed in her head.

"A lodger," she thought, "someone else in the house, even if they were just about occasionally. There would be someone else to talk to."

Shelagh continued to muse on this thought throughout lunch and as they finished eating, she brought the subject up with Patrick.

"What do you think darling?" she asked.

"Hmmm," Patrick began, "I suppose no-one else is ever going to use those rooms are they?"

Patrick's use of plurals cut through to Shelagh's inner soul. She swallowed a lump in her throat and bit her lip. "What did he mean by "those rooms?" Does he think she's never coming back?" A terrible, horrific thought coursed through her mind. "He can't have forgotten her, can he?"

"I'll leave it in your hands my dear, you can sort it out," Patrick finished.

"Are you sure it's alright, you don't mind?" Shelagh asked unsure whether her husband had fully comprehended her suggestion.

"I, hmmm, I" Patrick slurred "couldn't be more, hmmm, certain."

"I'll start looking right away then," Shelagh said, gathering the plates and heading inside to the kitchen.

Safe inside the kitchen she began to cry. Tears of sadness, pain, uncertainty meandered down her wrinkled cheeks, dripping into the iron-grey waves which now framed her face. She had not felt so alone for a very long time.

"What shall I do?" she thought. "What can I do?"


	2. Chapter 2

Shelagh did not mention the subject of renting out Timothy's old room again. Having reflected on what she now considered a rash decision further, she had decided that it was a selfish thing to do. It was not right to invite someone into their home just so she would not be lonely. That would be using them. She had also decided that bringing someone new into the house would upset Patrick, it would confuse him, and that certainly was not fair.

One morning about two weeks later, just as Shelagh had finished reading Patrick the newspaper sat in the sun in the garden, he looked at her thoughtfully and said.

"Have you found anyone interested in renting a room yet?"

Shelagh's astonishment at Patrick's statement caused her to almost drop the teacup she was holding. She gawped at him for a moment.

"You thought I'd forgotten, hadn't you?" Patrick responded slowly and carefully, more aware of the silence than his wife's expression, "or did you think I wasn't listening?"

Shelagh put her teacup down onto the plastic garden table, stood up, and threw both arms round her husband's shoulders.

"What was that for?" Patrick asked.

"I just wanted to show you how much I love you," Shelagh replied, slowly loosening the embrace, her hands tracing the ridges of his shoulder blades as she sat down.

Patrick lifted a shaking hand towards his wife's face, and ran his fingers through her hair. The tremble caused him to pull her hair, but Shelagh did not flinch.

"Shelagh," Patrick continued equally slowly, "I know how much you love me, nothing but love could drive a person to do all you do for me. I appreciate you, even if I can't always tell you."

"Patrick I couldn't not care for you, you are my husband, you're my life."

"But I shouldn't be," he slurred.

"What?"

"Your life, I should only be part of it."

Shelagh stared at Patrick, seemingly unable to fathom her husband's meaning. Although Patrick's failing eyes could not pick out the subtle details of his wife's confused expression, the poignancy of the silence between the two of them told him all he needed to know.

"Once again, you've given up a life for me."

Again, Patrick had to break the silence between them.

"I know when it's Friday and that you're not going to choir practice. I know that you barely leave the house aside from going shopping and to church. You've stopped inviting people to visit, it's only ever us. All you do is for me. When was the last time you saw Sister, um, Julienne? Do you not get lonely?"

"I, I," Shelagh began consciously avoiding her husband's second question, "not since Nonnatus House was closed."

"Why? She's, for all intents and purposes, your mother. Who doesn't see their mother for a year? Oh…" His voice trailed off as he heard Shelagh begin to sob. He took his handkerchief and tried to wipe Shelagh's tears, knocking her glasses askew in the process. "Sorry."

"It doesn't feel right," Shelagh continued once she had composed herself, "going to the Mother House. It's been a very long time since I was a member of that family." Another tear meandered down her cheek. "I left that family for this one. And now this one is…"

Shelagh put her arms around Patrick again and sobbed into his shoulder. She felt his arms tighten around her. A warm sense of security enveloped her, she felt safe. It had been so long since he had held her like this. She continued. "The Nonnatus family was always so strong, so stable. Yes, there were disagreements and teasing between us, but we were always together, there for each other, in every situation. Then I left that family, wanting to have my own, and now I feel I've made such a mess of it."

"You're not to blame, nothing that happened was your fault," Patrick said, his trembling hands attempting to caress his wife's back, "some things just happen." He paused and stared across the garden, thinking, reminiscing. He then said "I miss Angela."

Shelagh did not know how to react to Patrick's statement. He had not mentioned their daughter's name for many months, so part of her was relieved that his declining mental wellbeing had not caused him to forget her. However another part of her was coping with the realisation that she was not the only one who missed Angela. Ever since that cold January afternoon when she came back to an empty house and a hastily scrawled note from Angela left on the kitchen table, Shelagh's shock and grief, selfishly she now realised, had clouded her perception. She had barely considered the fact that Angela had two parents.

"I miss her too darling," Shelagh replied, barely able to prevent herself bursting into tears again.

"When's she coming home?"

"I don't know Patrick, I don't know."

"Where is she now? What did her last postcard say?"

"I, I, I" Shelagh stammered through a new wave of tears, "don't know. She hasn't sent a postcard since she was in Copenhagen a year last Easter."

Shelagh's mind flitted to the postcard of Copenhagen harbour on the mantelpiece, its edges curled from having been picked up and read so many times. It was the last in a series of cards which arrived in the first three or so months after the letter was left on the kitchen table. But none had arrived since; the last chain linking them seemed broken.

"Oh," Patrick drawled, "was it that long ago? I hadn't realised."

"Yes dear," Shelagh sighed. She knew the contents of Angela's last postcard word for word, right down to the tiny printed description of the image in the corner under the address.

"And how's Tim, and um, err, Lucy?"

"They are fine as far as I'm aware," Shelagh replied, wracking her brain to try and remember details of her telephone conversation with Timothy ten days earlier, "Lucy's scans were all normal, and Robert is now up and running about and Timothy taught him to catch a ball and, and, oh I miss them so much." Her voice choked through a new wave of sobs. "They were my life for so long and now, they have their own lives, they don't need me anymore. I don't know what to do with myself."

As Shelagh finished speaking, Patrick let go of her and picked up the newspaper from the table and handed it to her. He smiled a rare smile, one, Shelagh knew, was full of meaningful warmth and love.

"Well for a start, you are going to answer my original question. Have you found someone to lodge with us?"

"No, I didn't really think about it again," Shelagh said, half-lying through her teeth

"Then start thinking about it" Patrick continued, reaching to grasp Shelagh's hand, "find someone who you'd get on with, someone you can talk to." Patrick tried to focus solely on his wife's blue eyes. "And as you didn't answer another of my questions, I will do it for you. If you say you're not lonely, I don't believe you."

Shelagh's mouth curled, though whether it was into a smile or a squirming grimace at her husband's observation, neither of them could tell.

"Then," he continued thoughtfully, "we'll see what happens."

"Are you sure Patrick, it's a big decision to make?"

"And you've never made any of those have you darling?" he said with a cheekiness almost worthy of a teenage Timothy. "It's your life, lead it," he finished more seriously.

"Yes I suppose so," Shelagh mumbled.

"Don't give it all up for me, I will not allow it."

Shelagh's attempt to protest materialised only as a few stuttered sounds, but they were sufficient for Patrick to react with "I will hear no more," so she picked up his newspaper and began searching the "Accommodation Required" section.

Over the next three days, Shelagh arranged with six different women to view Timothy's old room. She wanted to ensure that the person she selected was suitable so scheduled informal interviews for that Thursday. She awoke early that morning, filled with a sense of nervous anticipation, wondering whether she was really doing the right thing. She dressed more slowly and carefully than usual in front of her long mirror, and as she fastened her pretty summer skirt, her thoughts, and gaze wandered to the six inch long scar which ran horizontally across her lower abdomen. She traced it with her fingers. Although now thin and white, the memories it evoked were still as red and raw as the scar itself was sixteen years ago, when her final glimmer of hope of her greatest dream coming true was so thoroughly removed.

"Be brave Shelagh," she thought, quickly fastening her skirt and adjusting her blouse, "everything will be fine."

Shelagh joined Patrick at the breakfast table five minutes later, poured them both some tea and then proceeded to butter a slice of toast for each of them. Patrick watched as she cut his toast for him before saying.

"You're wearing your pretty skirt, are you going out?"

"No, I've got some ladies coming to see the room today, remember?"

"The room," Patrick drawled, a confused expression spread across his furrowed brow, "what room?"

"Timothy's old room," Shelagh replied slowly and gently, trying to prevent the combination of pity, fear and exasperation she was feeling being transmitted in her voice, "we're going to rent it out, aren't we?"

"Oh, alright then," Patrick said cheerfully, though his words brought no cheer to Shelagh's heart, she knew her husband had little comprehension of what she had said.

"The first lady will be here at ten, darling," Shelagh continued, "and there are six in total. I'll be in the kitchen if you want anything, alright?"

The first five candidates arrived at their allotted times throughout the day. Each of their entrances was suffixed by Patrick enquiring who was at the door, followed by Shelagh explaining that they were here to see the room. Each was very different, a recent divorcee, a young journalist, two medical students and a barmaid, and Shelagh found them all pleasant enough, but she did not warm to any of them. She also found the reactions of one of the younger woman to Patrick a little upsetting, but managed, she hoped, to disguise her feelings.

As she waited for the last candidate to arrive she, once again questioned whether she was doing the right thing. A few minutes ticked by. Shelagh looked at her watch. She should be here by now.

"I hope she got the message," she thought.

Another few minutes ticked by before there was a ring at the doorbell.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**

**My apologies, but 'Jules' and her stories are semi-autobiographical, and an unashamed attempt to write myself into CTM-land (because I wish I lived there!).**

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The girl who Shelagh opened the door to did not look how she expected her to look. Not that she really knew what she was expecting, it is difficult to glean much about a person from an advert in the newspaper saying "Mid-20s, single, well-educated, working girl requiring lodgings in east London ASAP." She had also not spoken to her on the telephone as she had done with the other applicants; this meeting had been arranged through a kind sounding young man who Shelagh had assumed was the girl's brother. Her eyes widened as she looked at who was on her doorstep.

She was a few inches taller than Shelagh, and well built without being boyish. Her long, wavy hair, parted at the side and layered, was very similar in colour to how Shelagh remembered hers being at that age, and curtained an oval, freckled face. Her narrow, heavily lidded, brown eyes were framed by a pair of square-framed spectacles. She wore a pair of faded, heavily mended bell-bottom jeans and an old, beige-coloured shirt. The frayed, shapeless collar was open, the long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It was a man's shirt, it was far too big across her shoulders and ended past the curve of her hips, but was verging on tight across her bosom. Very few of the buttons were the shirt's originals. On her feet was a pair of battered black lace-up boots, the sort that Dockers and Navvies might have once worn. The ensemble was completed with a floral-patterned neckerchief, knotted to the side of her throat.

"Mrs. Turner?" she said with a slightly nervous expression on her face, very conscious that Shelagh was eyeing her appearance with suspicion.

"Miss Thompson?" Shelagh answered, still staring at the girl.

"I apologise for my appearance," Miss Thompson replied hastily, "I've only just been able to get off the site. I only had time to wash my face and hands and dust down my clothes. I thought it ruder to be late." She was not a local girl. Her accent on the whole seemed prim and clipped, Home Counties, Shelagh thought, yet a few sounds had hints of others, as though she had lived in several places.

"Not to worry," Shelagh managed to say, "I'm very pleased to meet you." She offered her hand and Miss Thompson nervously took it. Shelagh looked at the girl's hand. Although small, the skin on it was rough and calloused, and several of her knuckles bore evidence of recent trauma. "Do come in."

"Would you like me to take my boots off," Miss Thompson said, but before Shelagh could reply, she had read her face and began unlacing the boots.

As the two women walked into the house Shelagh wondered "What sort of girl is this? She looks a right mess. Is she really a well-educated, working girl? Though, whatever she is, she is certainly different."

"Who is it?" a slightly slurred voice called from the living room.

"This is Miss Thompson dear. She's here about the room too."

Miss Thompson looked round the door and saw an old man sitting on the sofa, his feet resting on a footstool. His white hair was messy, his heavily lined face echoed with an air of long-since-parted handsomeness, and his eyes although slightly clouded by cataracts, radiated kindness. His hands shook as he tried to drink a mug of tea.

"This is my husband Dr. Patrick Turner." Shelagh said.

Miss Thompson's eyes widened "Husband!" she thought. She had automatically assumed that this elderly-looking gentleman was Mrs Turner's father. She had estimated Mrs. Turner to be around fifty, but maybe she was older than she looked. Perhaps there was a very large age difference between the couple. Perhaps time had not been kind to Dr. Turner. She walked across the room, took his shaking hand and managed to muster a quiet "it's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Turner," before Shelagh left the room which she took as a cue to follow her into the kitchen.

"Do sit down Miss Thompson," Shelagh said, pulling one of the chairs out from underneath the table.

"Please, call me Jules," she replied, "I always feel as though I'm in trouble when I get called Miss Thompson." She let out a nervous giggle, then, not looking at Shelagh, sucked the inside of her bottom lip and fiddled with her hands.

Shelagh resisted the urge to say "what sort of trouble?" deciding not to jump to any more conclusions about this girl than she had already made. She had been taught to not be judgemental, but, shamefully she admitted, she could not help herself.

"Very well, Jules," Shelagh replied, "would you like a drink?"

"A glass of cold water would be lovely" Jules replied, "I'm gasping, it's so hot out there."

Shelagh ran the tap until the water emitting from it was icy cold and filled up a large glass and handed to Jules.

"Thanks Mrs Turner."

"Now, Jules," Shelagh said as she sat down, "I have had a lot of interest in the room, so I'm going to ask you a few questions to ascertain your suitability to be our lodger, and then I shall show you the room and if you are still interested, I shall let you know in the next day or two whether you have been successful. Is that alright?"

"Of course Mrs Turner."

"Firstly, your full name."

"Julie-Marie Brigid Thompson."

"Tell me a little about yourself."

"Well, I left home at eighteen to go to university and I'm now working as an archaeologist on the excavation on the dockside. I've worked and travelled here and in Europe since I graduated, moving from job to job. This excavation is supposed to last eighteen months, so I shall be settling here for a while."

"An archaeologist?" Shelagh said, suddenly seeing the scruffy, unkempt girl in front of her in a very different light. "That sounds very interesting, but it must be a terribly hard job?" Shelagh's mind flitted back to Jules' battered hands.

"I don't think any job is hard if you love it," Jules replied, "though I must admit, digging up the East End is not as romantic as Rome, or the Peloponnese or southern Turkey, but the work is here now, not there. I'm very much a follow your heart sort of girl, but I suppose one must listen to one's head occasionally."

"Quite," Shelagh said, trying to remain focussed and professional, though wanting to know more about this young woman's life.

"And where are you currently living, so I can get a reference from your landlord?"

"Um," Jules started, "well, the thing is, I'm currently sleeping on the sofa at the presbytery of St Anne's church, the one a few streets off Mile End Road. The priest who is covering their regular priest's summer holiday is a friend of mine and, he owed me a favour, I mean, well." Her voice trailed off, aware of Shelagh's raised eyebrow. "My last permanent address was near Newcastle, but that was two years ago. I've been moving around constantly since then."

"Is it quite appropriate for a young woman to be persuading a priest to allow her to sleep in a presbytery?" Shelagh said, but as she did she cast her mind back the day when they found out that Jenny had let Jimmy sleep in the boiler room at Nonnatus House. Sadness filled her heart as she thought of that day, and other such antics which the lay nurses of Nonnatus used to get up to. That was so long ago, an age away. "Anyway," she reasoned "a man in a convent is far more scandalous than a woman in a presbytery, even if she was there without the true owner's knowledge."

"It was only until I found somewhere else to stay," Jules replied defensively, "I don't have other friends or family around here."

Shelagh looked at the expression on Jules' face. It was fearful. She knew she was being judged and scrutinised. Shelagh suddenly felt great pity for Jules. She had always had a settled place to call home, a roof over her head, even in her darkest days when she was not entirely sure where she belonged or which life she should be living. Wandering for two years seems horrendous to her. Her mind was suddenly, painfully, cast towards another young girl, was she wandering still?

"And what do you like to do when you are not working?" Shelagh asked, returning to formalities.

"All sorts," Jules replied, "a quiet beer, baking, getting on a bus into the country and going for a long walk, singing."

"Singing?" Shelagh said, her eyes lighting up.

"I helped run a choir for a while at university," Jules replied, "I miss it, I only ever sing in church now."

"You're religious?"

"Roman Catholic, hence my current address, I met Father Benjamin whilst he was a seminarian at the English College in Rome and I was working out there. My father's family are from the Irish Republic, so it sort of follows. We're not involved in, the troubles," Jules added seeing the look on her interviewers face.

"I, I, didn't" Shelagh began.

"Don't worry about it, in times like this everyone has a right to suspicion and caution. You need to know whom you're letting into your home."

Shelagh sat in thought for a moment. Something about Jules made her warm to her in a way she had not with the others. She wanted to know so much more.

"Would you like to see the room now?" Shelagh said, standing up.

"Yes please," Jules said, and, draining the last of the water from her glass, followed Shelagh up the stairs and onto the landing.

"This is the bathroom," Shelagh said pointing at an open door, "this is mine and Patrick's room and this," she stopped and reached out and stroked the only completely closed door on the landing, "is our daughter's room, for, for, when she comes home."

Jules saw a look of sadness flash across the elder woman's face. A familiar look, one she had seen before, closer to home. Jules wondered when the last time that Mrs Turner saw her daughter was.

Shelagh opened the door of what had once been her son's bedroom. The late afternoon sunshine danced off the cream walls. Jules wandered round, opening the pine drawers and doors of the furniture, and sat on the bed to check the spring of the mattress. It, like the rest of the furniture, certainly had had very little use. They wandered back downstairs to the hallway.

"The rent will be £5 a week for the room and you will be welcome to treat the rest of the house and garden as your own. You will be welcome to join my husband and me for meals if you would like. You may have visitors if you ask us first and they do not stay overnight. We tend to turn in early, so if you could keep noise to a minimum after 10:30 we would appreciate it. Is that reasonable?"

"Yes Mrs. Turner, perfectly reasonable."

"In that case, if you would like it, the room is yours. And please, call me Shelagh."

"Really?" Jules gasped. "But what about the other candidates, my references…"

"I think I have seen and heard enough to convince me that you are a suitable candidate to be our lodger," Shelagh said smiling kindly, "you can move in as soon as you like."

"Thank you Mrs. Tur…Shelagh. I have a few things to pack up at the presbytery and I'm working tomorrow, could I move in tomorrow evening?"

"Yes of course," Shelagh replied, "do you need any help to move your things?"

"No, not at all," Jules replied, "two years on the road prevents a person hoarding. I'll manage, thank you."

"And we would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tomorrow evening, if you would like?"

"Um, err," Jules stammered, unsure what to make of this offer, "are you sure?"

"It would be my pleasure" Shelagh replied, "I want to make you feel welcome, and" Shelagh's eyes left Jules' "get to know you a bit better."

Jules' already narrow eyes tightened further as she eyed her now landlady with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. On the rare occasions where she was renting a room officially, rather than dossing, her landlord or lady only seemed to show an interest in her when the rent was late or if she had come home worse for wear and broken something. But Shelagh, as she now was allowed to refer to Mrs Turner, seemed different, kinder, as though she wanted a lodger not a monthly rent payment.

"That's very kind of you," Jules replied eventually.

"About six tomorrow" Shelagh chirped, opening the front door, "is there anything you don't eat?"

Jules giggled. "After being a student and then living on excavation catering, I've learnt to eat anything!"

Shelagh laughed. "Well, that's easy then, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye Shelagh."

* * *

**A/N**

**The story from now onwards is based on the story of the relationship between me, my mother's best friend, and her adopted daughter. Like those of the Jennifer Worth's books, all names have been changed. **


	4. Chapter 4

Shelagh woke the next morning excited about the evening ahead. It had been a long time since she had been able to entertain, so she went shopping first thing for the ingredients she needed, and then spent the afternoon forming them into salmon and broccoli quiche, buttered Jersey Royals and summer greens and a red fruit Pavlova.

Patrick spent most of the day sat at the kitchen table watching Shelagh's preparations. Shelagh had blind-baked the quiche base and left it to cool on the table beside Patrick.

"What's that for?" Patrick said.

"We're having quiche for dinner tonight dear, with Jules Thompson."

She looked at Patrick, watching and waiting for his reaction.

"Ah yes, Miss Thompson, the girl with the long hair who was here yesterday."

"Yes Patrick, she's moving in tonight, so I thought we should get to know her."

"Moving in?" Patrick questioned. Shelagh felt her face fall. "Ah yes, into Timothy's room," he finished after a slight hesitation

"That's right Patrick," Shelagh replied, trying to prevent the elated feeling in her heart being transmitted through her voice. "She should be here for six."

"That's good," Patrick said, "which tie should I wear?"

Shelagh tried to suppress a giggle, before saying "I'll find you an appropriate one."

By five-thirty Shelagh had prepared and double-checked everything she possibly could, so resigned herself to standing at the front window, peering round the curtains waiting in nervous anticipation for Jules' arrival. At five to six, the squeal of a bicycle's brakes alerted Shelagh to the arrival of 24 Bermondsey Lane's newest resident. She skipped away from the window and opened the front door.

"Is there anywhere I can put my bike?" Jules called from the driveway.

"Here," Shelagh said, skipping down the driveway, "I'll take it round the side and you can keep it in the shed, is that all your stuff?" she finished looking at the two rucksacks, one on Jules' back, the other now on the ground having been balanced on the handlebars.

"Two years on the road prevents hoarding," Jules replied, "can I take these straight upstairs?"

"It's your room," Shelagh replied as she began to push Jules' heavy, slightly rusty, Raleigh towards the side gate to the garden.

Jules ran up the stairs and opened the door to her new room. She gasped at the sight which greeted her. Brightly coloured curtains, bedding and a rug had appeared, a large vase of sweet peas sat on the windowsill, and what looked like a hand-embroidered cloth lay on the bedside table. She put the bags down on the floor, and pulled out a bottle green dress and the only pair of decent summer shoes she owned. She threw them on as fast as she could, pulled her hair into a French plait, found the bottle of white wine she had brought and ran back down the stairs again. She hovered for a moment in the kitchen doorway.

"Will I do?" Jules said coyly, obviously in want of something to say.

"Of course," Shelagh said kindly, "you look very pretty."

Deeply relieved given the last outfit which the Turner's had seen her in, Jules continued, "my father always taught me never to turn up anywhere empty-handed, so I hope this is alright," she finished, handing Shelagh the bottle.

"Oh that's very kind," Shelagh replied, "I'll get some glasses, do take a seat, dinner is nearly ready."

Jules sat on the long side of the living room table, joining Patrick who was sat at the head. She looked round the room. It was tastefully decorated, the sofas looked comfy, the cushions well plumped. There was art on the walls, the work a mixture of an adult and a child's hand. There were photographs on every surface, two wedding scenes, numerous depictions of a dark-haired boy and a titian-haired girl at various ages, and, rather curiously, a group of nuns on the steps of an imposing building. Her attention turned to the man at the end of the table. She watched him intently for a moment as he had appeared not to have noticed her. Being neither very good at small talk nor with awkward silences, Jules fiddled with her hands, desperately hoping that Shelagh would soon be joining them. Unable to stand the awkwardness any longer, Jules took a deep breath and said.

"How are you this evening Dr. Turner?"

When the expected response was not forthcoming, Jules wondered if Patrick was short of hearing as well as of sight. She repeated her question a little louder. Still, there was no reaction. She carried on watching him. She noticed the tremor in his hands, and having watched her grandfather's do the same, a name formed in her head. She stood up, walked over to the head of the table, knelt on the floor, and taking one of Patrick's hands in hers, repeated her question a third time. Her gesture seemed to resonate with Patrick, who looked at her and slurred.

"I'm well thank you Jules, do you like my tie?"

Jules looked at the red and green paisley patterned tie which was knotted loosely around Patrick's neck; she assumed he had tied it himself. Truthfully she thought it looked revolting, but she could not say that.

"It looks very smart Dr. Turner" she replied.

"You can call me Patrick," he said, "and we're having quiche for dinner," he continued, "Shelagh made it especially."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Jules replied, a little taken aback by the sudden lurch in the conversation's direction. At that moment Shelagh arrived with the promised quiche and terrines of vegetables. She dished up three plates with maternal care and then led them in saying grace. As she finished pouring the wine into two crystal glasses and a chunkier tumbler, and handing the latter to Patrick, she said,

"Oh, Patrick, why are you wearing that tie? I put one of your new ones out."

"I like this one" Patrick replied, "and so does Jules, don't you?"

Jules looked from one end of the table to the other, "um, err," she stammered and swallowed, "I'm no expert on ties but it looks fine to me, and this is wonderful Shelagh," she finished, pointing her fork at her piece of quiche in an attempt to change the subject.

"Thank you," Shelagh said, her cheeks flushing slightly, "how was your day at work?"

"Not too bad at all, the excavation has only been going a couple of weeks, but we're already finding some amazing things. It was hard work today though; it's been so hot out in the sun."

"So what are you excavating?" Shelagh asked.

"Well, we're not entirely sure yet, that area has been occupied continuously for two thousand years, so we're not really past 1900 yet, but the site has to be excavated and recorded before the developers move in. Hundreds of luxury flats are going to be built there apparently, going to cost a small fortune to buy."

"I remember when the Docklands was where the poorest of the poor lived," Shelagh sighed, "there was nothing luxurious about the flats there back then."

"Have you lived here a while then?" Jules asked, "You're not local. Hmm, not Glaswegian, I used to live with a girl from Govan, rarely understood a word she said. No somewhere softer, Edinburgh way maybe?"

"Not quite, I was born near Aberdeen, but have lived in the East End since I started my nursing training at the London just after the war. I worked in district practice so I was very familiar with the Docklands and their post-war deprivation."

"Goodness, you must have seen some terrible things. It takes a brave person to do that, I don't think I could."

"Sometimes yes, but I was also a district midwife, so," Shelagh paused for a fraction of a second, "I also had the pleasure of seeing the most beautiful and perfect thing in the entire world."

"Wow, now that must be a rewarding job, tough though I guess?"

Shelagh nodded.

"Is that how you two met?" Jules continued, "Doctor swept off his feet by a pretty young nurse?"

Jules looked between the couple. Shelagh looked a little embarrassed, but Patrick, although he had been silent for some time, had obviously been listening, and Jules was convinced she saw a smile flicker across his face.

"We did work together before we married yes," Shelagh replied, "Patrick was a General Practitioner, so was first port of call when we had a difficult labour on our hands. I'm not sure about the sweeping off his feet business, it, well, sort of,"

"Happened?" Jules finished the sentence for her.

"I suppose it did," Shelagh said coyly.

"And I see from the photographs you have two children of your own."

Shelagh's cutlery dropped to her plate with an almighty clang. She picked it up as quickly as she could, hoping that it would be considered an ill-timed accident. She was about to speak when Patrick said,

"Timothy is my son from my first marriage, and…"

"And Angela, is, ours," Shelagh interrupted, almost defiantly.

"Timothy looks so much like you Patrick," Jules said, looking at the two wedding photographs on the bookshelf and then back to Patrick, "and Angela," Jules looked back and forth between Shelagh and the numerous photographs of Angela. Shelagh watched her gaze, her eyes betraying every one of her thought processes, "Angela's a very pretty girl," Jules finished.

"Yes, yes she is," Shelagh said with a little air of sadness.

"Where are they living now?" Jules asked, "Are they nearby?"

"Not these days," Shelagh said, "Tim and his wife and son live in Carlisle and Angela is, um, travelling at the moment. I'm not sure where she is exactly now, her last postcard said that she was thoroughly enjoying Copenhagen. You're family aren't from round here are they?" Shelagh finished, trying to divert the conversation away from sensitive matters.

"No, my closest family live to the west of London, the rest are up north, or in Ireland. I only know Fr Benjamin here."

"Was he the well-spoken young man I talked to the other day? He sounded very nice."

"Yes, I'm very fond of him," Jules replied, "I've known him a while, we're good friends. And putting me up for two weeks was finally payback for getting him out of trouble with a nun." A sly grin replaced the slightly grave look which had been on her face when she first mentioned him.

"He wasn't trying to charm her out of her habit was he?" Patrick suddenly and coherently piped up. Shelagh flushed scarlet.

Jules laughed "no, no, nothing like that. After I had finished a job in Rome, there was a transport strike so I couldn't get home. So I found myself seeking refuge in a house which belonged to his seminary. It's a huge place and there were only a handful of seminarians, the Rector of the college and four nuns living there at the time, so I was allowed to stay in the nun's wing. Ben and I became friends instantly and although we could rarely be alone together, we made sure we sat together in the refectory, or accidently met in discrete locations. When the strike was over I had to be on the first train the next morning. So, we spent my last evening together on the lawn at the end of the garden. He had smuggled some wine out of the cellar, we talked for hours, just him and me, and then, well, he kissed me. We both knew that it was a stupid, wine-fuelled mistake, but."

Jules' voice trailed off.

"We got caught by Sister Claire, not kissing, but he had his arm round me. Thankfully, it was dark enough for her to not spot the wine bottles otherwise we would have both been in serious trouble. Sister Claire was the most draconian of the nuns, tiny, but terrifying. I've always found that nuns are either gentle and motherly souls or just plain unpleasant. Who are the nuns in that picture?" Jules said, her eyes returning to the bookcase.

Shelagh's stomach lurched violently. "Um, they are friends of mine," she replied, not willing to elaborate further. The silence that followed prompted Jules to carry on her story.

"So, when Sister Claire found Ben with his arms round me she rounded on us, shouting 'Brother Benjamin, what are you doing?' Poor Ben jumped to his feet so fast that he lost his balance and fell flat on his face. Sister Claire really started on him then, and he couldn't speak. I was left to try to think of an explanation as to why he was cuddling me, and I made up some drivel about how he was comforting me because I had had some bad news from home and was upset that I couldn't get back. I have no idea how I managed it, I was as scared of Sister Claire as Ben and I'd drunk a whole bottle of wine, but somehow she believed me. I think if she hadn't that would have been the end of Ben's career."

Jules paused and stared wistfully into space for a moment. Conscious that Shelagh and Patrick were watching her, she continued.

"We wrote regularly after I went home, and there was one time I thought," she paused "well, he was ordained two years ago, was a curate in Essex for a while and he's here for the summer while he waits to hear where his first parish will be. So yes, that's how I know that well-spoken young man, and how I ended up living in a presbytery," Jules finished, trying to sound more jovial than she felt.

"Ah I see," Shelagh said smiling, "it's nice to have a good friend who you can rely on, would you like some pudding?"

"Please, here let me take the plates," Jules said, standing up.

"No, no, I'll do it, you sit down," Shelagh replied.

Shelagh disappeared into the kitchen, and Jules refilled their wine glasses. As she handed Patrick his, he held her hand and said.

"There'll be other nice young men, don't worry."

Jules could not help feeling a sense of reassurance from the kindness in Patrick's eyes, she smiled, but did not need to answer, as, seeing the Pavlova in Shelagh's hand, Patrick chirped, "oooh pudding."

Placing it on the table, Shelagh then fished in the pocket of her cardigan for something, and said,

"Welcome to the house Jules" and handed her two brass keys. "I hope you'll be very happy here."


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few weeks Jules and the Turners began to grow accustomed to living under the same roof. Although Jules usually left the house early to cycle to work, Shelagh would try and be up to see her before she went, and looked forward to hearing about her day over dinner when she got home. She found her pleasant company, and although far from noisy, Jules' rummaging about, skipping down the stairs and humming in the bathroom, provided a welcome relief to the relative silence which had befallen the house of late. Jules similarly appreciated the care and attention which she had received since moving in, though she did have to draw a line after discovering one evening, to her great embarrassment, that Shelagh had washed all her underwear for her.

One Thursday evening, as they chatted as usual over dinner, Shelagh suddenly remembered something which Jules had told her during their first meeting.

"Jules, Poplar Choral Society are rehearsing at the Community Centre tomorrow, do you want to go?"

"Oh yes, I'd love to go with you," Jules replied, "You are going, aren't you?" she asked as she watched the sparkle fade from Shelagh's eyes.

"Well I used to go, but, I don't like to leave Patrick."

"Shelagh is going," Patrick said, "I can look after myself."

Shelagh and Jules both stared at Patrick, then at each other. Both knew that he probably could not, but that there was also little chance of reasoning with him.

"You haven't been to choir for ages Shelagh, it will be good for you, and Jules won't know where the Community Centre is, so you'll have to go with her." He looked at his wife and grinned triumphantly.

Shelagh glared at Patrick, Jules had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself laughing.

"I'll be fine," he continued, "what can happen in a few hours?"

"A lot, but!"

"Go and have a good sing," Patrick finished, and returned to his meal.

Just before seven-thirty the following evening, Shelagh found herself walking up to the doors of the Community Centre, with Jules free-wheeling on her bicycle behind her. To put her mind at rest about leaving Patrick she had spoken to their neighbours, Barbara and John, who said they would keep half an eye on him. She sighed as she pushed the door open. It had been a long time since she had stood in this building.

"Which part do you sing?" Shelagh said as the younger woman joined her at the back of the room.

"Soprano," Jules replied.

"So do I," Shelagh said, "let's find some music, and then sit over there."

They acquired copies of the music and joined the rest of the sopranos. Jules surveyed her fellow choir members. Most were as she expected from a Choral Society, middle-aged women, several men who looked like they had been dragged there by their middle-aged wives, and a few who she thought must be students. But there were a few members of a similar age to her, including, she noticed, a short, dark haired tenor, a tall, rugged-looking bass and the pretty, blonde rehearsal pianist.

"Shall we begin everyone?" a portly, tousle-haired man wearing a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers called above the chatter, rapping his baton on his music stand. "As you will have discovered, we will be performing Haydn's Creation at our autumn concert this year, so without further ado, let's give 'In the Beginning' a go, can you play the introduction please Eleanor?"

"Of course Mr Everett," the pretty pianist replied.

"Well, that's it for this week," Mr Everett called out an hour and a half later, "you've made real progress tonight, and I think we all deserve a visit to The Coach and Horses."

"Oh, that was good," Jules remarked as she and Shelagh got to their feet, "now what are you having?"

Shelagh looked at Jules with a confused expression on her face. "Pardon?" she replied.

"At The Coach and Horses, my treat, what will you have?"

"Oh, um," Shelagh began, "I'm not really into that sort of thing, and I need to get back for Patrick, though you go," she added, seeing Jules' eyes turn downcast.

"Right, I'll see you later then," Jules said in a tone almost verging on miffed.

Shelagh watched her stride off, making a beeline for some of the more junior members of the choir who were clearly heading towards The Coach and Horses. As she raced back home, part of her wished that she had joined Jules and her new friends, but she knew that getting home to Patrick was more important that evening. "Besides," she reasoned, "she doesn't want her, um, I mean, me, there."

"Did you both have a good time?" Patrick asked as he heard the front door open. Realising that there was only one person in the room, he continued, "Oh, where's Jules, you haven't lost her have you?"

"She went to The Coach and Horses with Teddy, Adrian and Eleanor," Shelagh replied, "I didn't want to go, I'm tired" she continued, anticipating Patrick's next question, "I'm going to have an early night."

It was almost midnight before Jules managed to, rather clumsily, pedal her way up Bermondsey Lane. The evening with her new friends had been pleasant, though her fourth pint of ale had probably been excessive, for the journey home had been somewhat hazy. She slowed to a halt outside number 16, conscious that her squeaky brakes would wake the neighbourhood, and pushed her bicycle the rest of the way. She chained it to the side gate rather than risk fumbling through the dark garden, and then crept as quietly as she could into the house. Deciding a glass of water would help her spinning head, she felt her way through the dark hallway to the kitchen. It was then that she noticed that the back door was wide open. She turned the light on and peered into the garden. A small, slender form was sat on the garden bench.

"Shelagh," Jules called, "what are you doing?"

Shelagh jumped out of her skin at the sound of Jules' voice. Conscious of only being in her night things, she threw her arms defensively to her chest, pulling her light dressing gown tighter as she did so.

"I couldn't sleep," Shelagh replied, turning to face Jules. The light from the kitchen illuminated her face enough for Jules to notice she had been crying.

"What's the matter?" Jules enquired.

"Nothing," Shelagh lied unconvincingly.

"It doesn't sound like nothing," Jules replied kindly. She paused, trying to think of something comforting to say. When words failed her she said, "Horlicks?"

When she saw Shelagh nod in the darkness, she disappeared into the kitchen, returning five minutes later with two large mugs. She joined Shelagh on the bench and handed her one. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Shelagh began to speak.

"Choir practice used to be such a happy time. We all used to go together. I ran Poplar Choral Society for over fifteen years, Timothy played the piano until he moved away, Angela has a lovely contralto voice, and Patrick used to join in when we were singing something he liked, and when he wasn't singing, was always there to support us. When I started running it, I never thought that it would become such an important part of our lives, I only took it on for, a, um, distraction."

"A distraction from what?" Jules said, far too abruptly, "sorry," she continued as she heard Shelagh begin to sob, "You don't have to tell me; it's none of my business."

"It was to distract myself from the fact I could never have children of my own," Shelagh said quietly, "a friend suggested I took it over to occupy myself."

Jules had not expected such a revelation. She fiddled with her hands in awkwardness, wondering what on earth to say or do next. After a moment's hesitation, she nervously put her free arm loosely round Shelagh, unsure whether the gesture would be appreciated. She tightened the grip in response to Shelagh moving closer to her.

"But, what about Angela?"

"She's not ours, well, not ours biologically," Shelagh sniffed, "we adopted her as a newborn. I had tuberculosis the year before we married, which left my chances of conceiving almost zero. We never gave up hope, but."

"It never happened?"

"No," Shelagh sighed, but as she did, her hand found its way instinctively to the scar across her abdomen.

"Angela always knew she was adopted," Shelagh continued, "we didn't want to lie to her, but of course, we loved her as our own. And she never seemed to question it, she seemed to accept it. But then, when she was about fourteen, things started to change. We assumed she was just being a rebellious teenager, that it was a phase, and that it would all blow over. She started missing school, disappearing off for hours without telling us where she was going, she fell into the wrong crowd. One night she came home stinking of cigarettes and beer, she was only fifteen. Patrick and I were sick with worry, so when she finally turned up we confronted her. I tried to reason with her, but she was having none of it. Patrick then tried, and snapped at her, which before his diagnosis was so unlike him.

"Parkinson's does that though," Jules mumbled.

"You know?"

"I knew as soon as I saw the tremor, my grandfather was the same."

"He was so cross with her," Shelagh continued, "he shouted 'have some respect for your mother and father' and Angela retorted with 'well maybe I would if I knew who they were!'"

Shelagh buried her head into Jules shoulder, sobbing into her cardigan.

"Oh no, Shelagh," Jules replied holding her tighter.

"We were both so stunned that we couldn't speak, we just stared at her. She had never appeared to resent her adoption before, so her words destroyed us both. We hoped it was the drink talking." Shelagh's voice trailed off, Jules stroked her arm.

"It wasn't was it?" Jules replied.

Shelagh shook her head, before taking a deep breath and continuing,

"A few days later Angela came home late from school. She stomped up the stairs without saying a word and slammed her bedroom door behind her. I went to see if she was alright, but she wouldn't answer. She only reluctantly came down for dinner, and even then, she just sat in silence. I asked her what was wrong, and eventually she said that she had been trying to find her real parents. It turned out that her biological mother had died in an accident several years before, and that her birth certificate didn't mention her biological father's name. 'Well' she then said with exacting coldness, 'since no-one else can tell me who I am, I better find out for myself.'"

"What did she do?"

"Nothing immediately, but gradually she spent less and less time at home, less and less time at school and got herself into more and more trouble. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and she knew that we wouldn't try to stop her for fear of fracturing our relationship further. She somehow scraped a couple of O-Levels, and then went to work in a restaurant in Mayfair, waiting tables. That's where she met, him."

Jules felt Shelagh flinch in her arms.

"Matthias was a regular client at the restaurant: twenty-three; American; devilishly handsome; heir to his father's business empire; apartment in Kensington; Ferrari in the garage. He swept her off her feet, showered her with gifts, took her to the biggest concerts, the fanciest restaurants, booked private boxes at the theatre, Ascot and Stamford Bridge. He was her world. No-one else mattered to her anymore, as long as she had him, she was happy. In her eyes, he made her complete. Patrick and I were the least of her concerns, and I doubt she ever wrote or spoke to Timothy in Carlisle."

"Where is she now?" Jules asked, remembering the look on Shelagh's face when she pointed out Angela's room to her.

"I, I don't know," Shelagh sobbed.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"January 7th last year. She left a note on the kitchen table that morning saying that Matthias was taking her round the world, that she had no idea when she was going to be back, and that she was hoping to discover who she really was. She sent a few postcards but they soon stopped. I, I don't even know if she's alive."

Shelagh threw both arms round Jules' neck. Jules patted her back, desperately trying to think of something to say.

"I, I can't even begin to imagine how you're feeling," Jules stammered awkwardly, "what can I do to help?" she finished.

"Nothing you can do will bring our daughter home," Shelagh replied. She shifted out of Jules' arms, "just be you, you've already been a great help to us both."

Jules stared into the dark garden, not knowing what to say, or do, or what to make of Shelagh's most recent statement. Suddenly, sleepy from the combination of ale and Horlicks she yawned loudly.

"You need to be in bed my dear," Shelagh said affectionately.

"I think we both need to be," Jules replied, standing up and holding a hand out to Shelagh, and, helping her to her feet, said "it's been a long day."

Re-entering the house, they climbed the stairs to their rooms, and wished each other goodnight on the landing. They both lay awake in bed for some time that night, each trying to comprehend that evening's events.


	6. Chapter 6

The events which had occurred the previous night troubled Jules' thoughts when she woke the next morning. So many things she had observed about Shelagh and Patrick suddenly made complete sense, but so many things remained unanswered, and a thousand more questions she never knew needed answers had also materialised. She was almost glad that she had decided to go to the site and catch-up on her reports that Saturday, it meant that she did not have to immediately face the issue. She crept out the house thankful that no-one else was awake.

Sat at a splintered wooden desk in the Portakabin site office, Jules tried to focus on the report and the drawings she was supposed to be doing. She stared into space, twirled her pencil in her fingers, drank several cups of tea, but her efforts were futile. Her morning's work consisted of a few lines of notes and an incomplete drawing of a pot. She put her work away and decided to cycle the long way home.

"Where have you been?" Shelagh asked as Jules wandered into the kitchen an hour later, "I wondered where you were."

"I had some things to finish at the site," Jules replied, pouring a glass of water, "why?"

"Oh, I, um, just wondered," Shelagh replied, "would you like some lunch?"

"I've eaten, thank you," Jules replied, and without looking at Shelagh, left the kitchen and ran upstairs to her room.

Lying on her bed, Jules thought about the conversation she had just had. The episode made her feel uncomfortable, it did not feel right. She then replayed what Shelagh had told her the previous evening in her mind. Thoughts stirred, thoughts she knew she could not deal with alone. There was only one person who she could discuss this one with. After Mass the next day was not the time. She had a day off that Friday; she would go and see Fr Benjamin then.

Just before ten on Friday morning, Jules knocked on the door of the presbytery of St Anne's church. Having lived there for a fortnight, she knew the front door would be on the latch, but it did not seem right now just to walk in. She smiled as she saw her friend answer the door. Fr Benjamin was a few years older than her, tall and slim, fresh-faced with wavy, near shoulder length strawberry-blonde hair, kind grey eyes and a smile that would light up any room. Combined with his good nature, intellect and mischievous sense of humour, she could not help liking him.

"Jules," Fr Benjamin chirped as he answered the door, "what a pleasant surprise."

"Are you busy?" she asked, "any chance of a word?"

"I'm never too busy for you," he replied, the chirp not leaving his voice. Jules' stomach lurched as she followed him through the door and into the kitchen.

"Tea, coffee, College cocktail?"

"Even I can't drink College cocktail at this time of day," Jules replied with laughter in her voice, "especially if the measures are same size that you and Aloysius put into it at your ordination. Coffee would be lovely."

"There's some cake too if you'd like some, the little old ladies of the parish seem insistent on inundating me," he said, flicking the switch on the kettle and pouring coffee granules into two mugs.

"And I'm sure that's a terrible burden for you" Jules said as she removed the milk from the fridge.

Fr Benjamin laughed, "No seriously, look," he said opening the larder and pointing to where a Victoria Sandwich, a Marzipan-covered fruitcake and a Kilner Jar full of shortbread stood, "and I finished the Lemon Drizzle for breakfast!"

"Come on then," Jules said picking up the Victoria Sandwich, a knife and a pair of plates, "I'll help you shoulder this one!"

Jules and Fr Benjamin, who was carrying the coffee, walked out of the kitchen towards the living room. Not paying attention to where she was going, Jules caught her knee on something hard and metallic. She did very well to prevent the cake from flying.

"Owww!" she squeaked. She looked round to see what she had crashed into, and saw the heavy framed wheelchair which seemed to migrate around the presbytery, "has no-one claimed that thing yet?" she asked.

"Nope," Fr Benjamin replied, "it's been there since before I arrived."

"Who turns up to Mass and leaves their wheelchair behind? Spectacles and gloves yes, but a wheelchair?"

"Someone inspired by John 5:8 or Matthew 9:6?"

Jules looked at Fr Benjamin puzzled, she was no Biblical scholar.

"When Jesus heals the paralysed man, and tells him to 'take up thy bed and walk'" he continued smiling, putting his friend out of her misery.

"Oh ha ha ha, very funny!"

They sat down on the sofa. The south-facing room was warm and bright, so Jules pulled her cardigan off, while Fr Benjamin cut two sizable pieces of sponge. After a moment he said, "So how can I help you?"

Jules smirked, "you just slipped into your priest's voice, and yes you do have one before you say anything," as he opened his mouth to protest, "no, in all seriousness, it's about the Turners, the couple I'm now living with."

"Go on," he said quizzically.

"Well, Patrick and Shelagh are lovely, don't get me wrong, but, how do I put this without being blunt? Don't!" Jules said, anticipating a derogatory comment. Fr Benjamin pulled a look of mock innocence. Jules continued, "they're lives are a bit, well, messed up. There's a big age different between them, at least fifteen, if not twenty years, and Patrick has Parkinson's, and Shelagh has given up everything to care for him, and you can just tell how hard it is for her."

"That can often happen," Fr Benjamin said thoughtfully, "have they got other family around? Siblings? Children? Close friends even?"

"I don't know about siblings" Jules replied, "or friends for that matter. They talk to John and Barbara next door, but they've never really mentioned anyone else and visitors to the house are like hen's teeth. I think the children are the biggest part of the problem. Tim, Patrick's son, Shelagh's step-son, lives in Carlisle. I don't know how much contact they have with him, but he's rarely discussed. And Angela their daughter, well, they haven't seen or heard from her for over a year. She ran off round the world with a young American socialite, wanting to find herself. She was adopted as Shelagh couldn't have children."

"And she told you all this?"

"Well I worked out the Parkinson's bit, but the rest she did, after choir practice last week. It was something they all used to do together, and Patrick insisted she took me, I think it kindled bad memories. It kind of all came out. And everything has been odd since."

"Odd, what do you mean?"

"Well Shelagh was always for more attentive than any other landlady I've ever had, but now I'm worried that, I'm there to fill a gap which I can't, and shouldn't, try to fill. Do you know what I mean? I'm not being cruel am I?"

"No I think you are being sensible, what makes you think that?"

"Just little things, she's always up to see me off to work, my day is the first thing she wants to know about when I get home, she told me off for not ironing my dress before I went to church on Sunday, she asked me why I wasn't at home on my day off. She's worse than,"

"Your mother?" Fr Benjamin finished the sentence for her.

"Exactly! I know she means well, but I can't be what she wants, and needs." She paused and took a large swig of coffee.

"Why don't you say something, you're not usually one for keeping your mouth shut are you?"

Jules eyed the young cleric over the top of her mug, trying to scowl disapprovingly, but seeing the grin on his face, her scowl melted into a giggle.

"If you weren't wearing a dog-collar you would have just got a slap for that remark, Benji, and" she continued more seriously, "I don't want to hurt her."

"Shush, don't call me Benji," Fr Benjamin replied, looking round the room in a state of wide-eyed panic, "I'm convinced Mrs Marks has ultrasonic hearing."

"Ah, she's back from visiting her sister in Aberystwyth then, or was it Abergavenny?" Jules enquired.

Whilst Jules had been staying at the presbytery she had had to ensure that she was not in the house when Mrs Marks, the parish's housekeeper, was there. Not only was she St Anne's most prolific gossip, she was old-fashioned, set in her ways and thoroughly disapproving of anything which was not what she considered of the highest moral calibre. If she had caught Jules in the house Mrs Marks would have seen that the consequences for both her and Fr Benjamin would be unimaginable.

"It began with Aber," Fr Benjamin replied, "I had stopped listening by the time she told me the details."

"I thought you were supposed to provide a listening ear to your parishioners, or did you miss that bit at seminary?"

Fr Benjamin laughed, "No I was there for that, but parish life has taught me that selective hearing is another valuable skill."

"Well I'm sure you're big enough to deal with her yourself!" Jules smirked and flashed him a loaded look.

Fr Benjamin raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. Jules read his expression.

"Sorry Ben," she finished, not looking at him.

"I forgive you," Fr Benjamin replied, patting Jules' arm. Jules wished that he would not, but did not move her arm away, "but the past is past."

"I know, but."

"You'll be a friend forever Jules, and I'll be there for you whenever you need me, but that is all I can be. We must accept that."

Jules nodded, and tried to answer, but her thoughts were interrupted by the door handle clunking. A short, plump, grey-haired bespectacled lady walked into the room, carrying a large pile of white altar linen. She stopped dead when she saw Jules then looked from Fr Benjamin, to the mugs and plates on the table, and back to Jules.

"Oh, sorry Father," Mrs Marks said, "I didn't know we were expecting visitors."

"I didn't realise I had to tell you everything Mrs Marks," Fr Benjamin said coldly.

"I hope you haven't forgotten that you're supposed to be helping Fr Dominic set up the hall for tomorrow's joint-parish bazaar, he'll be here in about half an hour," Mrs Marks retorted with a similar level of venom, before turning on her heels and walking back out the room.

Fr Benjamin waited until he thought Mrs Marks was safely out of earshot before groaning,

"Uh, I'd completely forgotten about the bazaar." He picked his mug up and drained the last of his coffee before saying "I think we'll have to cut this meeting short, I'm afraid." He stood up and helped Jules to her feet, then, slightly awkwardly, draped her cardigan around her shoulders, almost dropping it in the process. Jules tried not to giggle as they wandered together out into the hallway.

"How much longer are you here for?" Jules asked.

"Three more weeks," Fr Benjamin replied, "then I'm being sent to a parish in East Sussex."

"We'll have to meet again before you go."

"Yes we must, I will want to know about how the Turners are getting on."

"How can I help them Ben?" Jules pleaded, only just remembering to cut "ji" off the end of his nickname.

"They obviously like you and trust you. You're kind and clever, if any help is needed, you'll know what to give. Follow your heart and trust in the Lord. I'll pray for you all." He looked at her with his sparkling silver-grey eyes and taking her small, cold hands in his large, warm ones, continued in his priest's voice, "Go my child."

"Goodbye Father," Jules said as she let herself out the presbytery door.

As she cycled back to Bermondsey Lane Jules reflected on her friends words.

"'The past is past' he said," she thought, "is it really? Is it always? 'If any help is needed, you'll know what to give,' but what is help and what is interference? What should I do? What can I do?"

* * *

**A/N**

**Some more familiar characters will be making their appearance soon!**


	7. Chapter 7

"I'll get it!" Jules called from half way down the stairs as the clatter of the letterbox signalled the arrival of the post the following Wednesday morning.

"Two bills and a nice handwritten one which looks much more exciting," Jules said as she wandered into the kitchen, her work jeans teamed today with an oversized red, black and white striped shirt, whose seams had torn upwards from the hem.

"A handwritten one," Shelagh said excitedly, taking the post from Jules.

"Why are you here?" Patrick asked abruptly, staring at Jules with a confused look on his face.

"She lives here," Shelagh began, but Patrick interrupted her sharply.

"I know that, what do you think I am? Stupid?" He waved a shaking hand violently at her face. "You're the one that's stupid if you think that! Why is she here now? She should be at work. That's what I meant Shelagh."

The expression on his face was frightening, and Shelagh's eyes were suddenly filled with tears, though Patrick was completely unaware of the effect which his words and manner had had on her. Jules was aghast, she had witnessed Patrick experience moments of confusion and frustration, but nothing like the aggressive outburst he had just made. Judging by Shelagh's reaction, these outbursts were unexpected for her too.

"I'm still here Patrick," Jules began slowly and gently, "because they need to do some shoring up of my part of the trench before we can work there today, so I'm starting at ten-thirty. Is that alright?" she finished, though not entirely sure why.

"Can you get me some more toast when you get your coffee?" Patrick replied.

"Um, yes of course Patrick," Jules replied, thankful for an excuse to disappear into the kitchen.

Jules returned a few minutes later carrying her and Patrick's breakfast. The three sat and ate in silence. Shelagh read the handwritten letter which she had received.

_Dear Shelagh,_

_Thank you, as usual, for your kind letter, and I hope that my reply finds you well. How is Patrick these days? Has he seen the specialist at the London again yet?_

"Yes, he has," Shelagh thought, "and the news was not good, as epitomised by this morning's outburst."

_I expect you are waiting in nervous anticipation for the arrival of your second grandchild; Lucy must be due very soon now. I remember her and Timothy in my prayers each day. It must be a terribly exciting time for you and Patrick. Are you planning to visit them once the baby is born?_

"We might get to see the baby soon," Shelagh continued inwardly, "if Tim and Lucy decide to visit." She imagined for a moment the soft, warm feeling of a baby in her arms, wondering how long she would have to wait to experience it for real.

_Has your young archaeologist settled in now? Jules seems a nice girl and I'm glad that you were able to find someone suitable to lodge with you. Isn't it strange to think that the area where we lived and worked for so long is now being treated as 'archaeological evidence?' It makes me feel so old! I wonder if they'll come across any of the clamps and glass rectal tubes which Sister Evangelina swore disappeared from Nonnatus House over the years._

Shelagh could not help smiling at the thought of Jules' trench being filled with clamps and rectal tubes.

_All is well here in Chichester, we have two new postulants, Elizabeth and Frances, who arrived last week. I do hope that they stay; vocations have dwindled so dramatically over the last few years…_

Shelagh felt her stomach squirm.

_I had a lovely surprise last week. Jenny, Philip and their girls dropped by to visit. It had all been arranged behind my back by Reverend Mother, she is getting sneaky in her old age! It was lovely to see them. Jenny's girls are so grown up now, and look so pretty, just like their mother…_

It had been a long time since Shelagh had seen Jenny's daughters; they would both be in their teens now. She tried to imagine what they would look like. She tried not to imagine her Angela with them, laughing together as they had done as small children.

_We had a picnic in the garden, with cakes, tea, and pink lemonade, and then went for a long walk in the countryside. It was a most pleasant day, and I thank God for blessing me with such good friends._

Shelagh felt even more awkward. "What was she saying?" she thought.

_I'm afraid I must sign off for it is almost time for Compline. Reverend Mother and Sister Evangelina send their regards._

_God bless, Shelagh,_

_Best wishes,_

_Sister Julienne of the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus_

Shelagh turned the page over and her heart filled with sadness at the words written there.

_PS: I almost forgot, how's your Angela? Is she back from her travels yet?_

Shelagh had not been honest with Sister Julienne about the circumstances surrounding Angela's absence. She felt so guilty for lying to her mother, but even more so about failing to be the mother she wanted to be.

"Who's your letter from?" Patrick asked, his temper soothed by the presence of extra toast.

"Sister Julienne," Shelagh replied.

"Oh how is she?" Patrick asked, "What does she say?"

"Who's Sister Julienne?" Jules asked absent-mindedly through a mouthful of toast, "sorry, being nosy!"

"She's a, um, friend and former, err, colleague," Shelagh replied hesitantly.

"Shelagh used to be a nun too," Patrick said nonchalantly.

"Patrick!" Shelagh gasped, turning scarlet. She looked from her husband to her lodger and back again. She had no idea what to say, and she realised, attempting to hide behind a teacup was futile.

"You gave up your vows for love, didn't you?" Jules said quietly, "for Patrick? To have a family?"

Shelagh nodded.

Jules turned to Patrick, and said "you're very lucky to have someone who loves you that much Patrick," and then continued to herself "I wish I was that lucky."

"So what does Sister Julienne say then?" Patrick asked again, seemingly unaware of what anyone else had said.

"This and that," Shelagh replied, "she asks after the three of us, after Timothy and Lucy, and," she stopped herself before she mentioned her daughter's name, "and that Jenny, Philip and their girls came for a surprise visit."

"That would have been nice for her," Patrick drawled, "she always liked to see Jenny and her girls."

"Yes," Shelagh said, her face falling, "she said."

"Why don't you do the same?" Jules suggested casually.

"What do you mean?" Shelagh asked looked at Jules.

"Surprise her." Jules looked at Shelagh meaningfully. "It's been a while since you've seen her, isn't it?"

"How, um, err, yes," Shelagh stammered, staring wide-eyed at the girl opposite her.

"Where does she live?" Jules asked.

"Chichester."

"Well that's not far, go for a day. And if Patrick doesn't want to go, I'm not working on Saturday," Jules finished with a mischievous grin as she picked up her plate and mug and waltzed out of the room.

Shelagh and Patrick sat in silence until they heard Jules close the front door behind her, and then Patrick said.

"Well, you better telephone the Mother House then."

"What!" Shelagh gasped, "You didn't think she was being serious did you?"

"I did and I do. The telephone is in the hallway, and the number is in the black address book on the hall table."

After breakfast Shelagh thumbed her way through the address book to where she had written the Mother House's telephone number. She nervously dialled the number.

"The House of Saint Raymond Nonnatus, Reverend Mother speaking" came a formal, yet strangely familiar reply.

"Hello, Reverend Mother, my name is Shelagh, Shelagh Turner."

"Shelagh!" the formal voice of the Reverend Mother suddenly turning into an excited girlish squeak, "how lovely to hear from you after so long."

"Sister, Winifred?" Shelagh asked, "is that you? You're now Reverend Mother? Sister Julienne didn't say that you actually got elected."

"Yes it's me Shelagh, and I know, me Reverend Mother, didn't see that one coming, I only really put myself forward for election as a bit of a joke, never thought I'd get it!" Her voice trailed off into a fit of laughter.

Shelagh could not help smiling, and thought how much she would love to have been a fly on the wall when that election result was announced.

"I was wondering Reverend Mother, whether I would be able to come and visit you all, on Saturday. I've, got a, free weekend, and it is so long since I have seen you all."

"Why of course Shelagh," Reverend Mother replied, "we have no other guests, please feel free to stay as long as you like."

"It will only be a daytrip," Shelagh replied, "Patrick is not well and I wouldn't want to leave him overnight."

"I understand," Reverend Mother said kindly.

"Would you keep this secret from Sister Julienne?" Shelagh asked.

"I will do my best not to spill the beans, though you know how terrible I am at keeping exciting secrets to myself."

Shelagh laughed down the phone, "Were you ever forgiven for telling Sister Evangelina about her Jubilee party?"

"I think it took until about 1972," Reverend Mother replied, "but I promise to try a little harder to keep this one a secret."

"Thank you," Shelagh laughed, "well I shall see you all on Saturday."

"I look forward to it, until then, God bless my child." Reverend Mother paused, obviously deciding her usual telephone farewell was too formal for such an occasion, so added an affectionate "Bye bye Shelagh."

Saturday morning arrived and Shelagh boarded a train to Chichester. As she watched the scenery flash by out of the carriage windows, a knotting sense of nervous anticipation troubled her. She was only going to visit a friend, a dear friend who was the closest thing to a mother she ever remembered having, yet she was terrified. She feared a judgement, she feared that elapsed time would have fractured their relationship beyond repair, and she feared she would have nothing to say.

As she alighted from the train onto the sunny platform, her heart began to race, and the nearer she got to the Mother House, the faster her heartbeat raced. By the time she climbed the steps to the dark oak front door, she thought that it was going to burst out of her chest. Raising a shaking hand, she gripped the large brass doorknocker, and, after taking a moment to compose herself, rapped the knocker three times.


	8. Chapter 8

The door to the Mother House creaked open. A young Postulant peered nervously around it.

"Hello," she said, staring at Shelagh with an air of suspicion, "how can I help?"

"My name's Shelagh Turner, I'm here to see…"

"Shelagh!" a familiar voice interrupted her.

A rapid set of footsteps on the tiled floor preceded Reverend Mother's appearance at the door. She threw her arms around Shelagh, almost smothering her in the folds of her habit.

"It's so lovely to see you," Reverend Mother continued, "how we have all missed you."

"I have missed you all too, Sister, I mean, Reverend Mother."

"Shelagh my dear friend, Winifred will do, or if old habits cannot be laid to rest…" the young Postulant at the door sniggered, but was silenced by one look from Reverend Mother, "…then Mother Winifred, but not Reverend Mother, I feel it is far too formal. Now Frances," she said, breaking the embrace and turning to the Postulant, "please go to the kitchen and ask that tea and cakes for four are sent to the best parlour immediately, then please go to and find Sisters Julienne and Evangelina and inform them that I need them to join me."

"Yes Mother Winifred," Frances replied slightly begrudgingly, and skulked off in the direction of the kitchen. When she was out of earshot, Mother Winifred said,

"I'm not sure about that one, the poor thing; I don't think the religious life is quite living up to her expectations. I think she thought that we just do a bit of nursing and bit of praying here and there. Shall we?" she finished, as she guided Shelagh through a door into a cosy wood panelled room, which Shelagh assumed was the aforementioned best parlour. They made themselves comfortable on a pair of old fashioned wingback chairs, handmade cushions and antimacassars arranged neatly across them.

"You are all still nursing then?" Shelagh enquired, knowing that hospital-based midwifery had long since replaced that side of the Nonnatuns' work.

"Very much so, we're mainly involved in district practice, supporting the local doctors, helping out with vaccination programmes, running First Aid courses, that sort of thing. But very little really in comparison with what we did in Poplar, and no midwifery these days, apart from in emergencies."

"Emergencies?" Shelagh said curiously.

"Sister Rosalind delivered a baby in Tescos about six months ago, the poor girl had no idea she was expecting until her waters broke in the fruit and vegetable aisle, it was in the local newspaper and everything," Mother Winifred said, with a mischievous glee in her voice, "ah, excellent, cake, thank you Mrs. Reynolds," she finished as a kindly, buxom lady entered the room pushing a small trolley laden with homemade cakes, and a fine China tea service.

Mother Winifred was just reaching for the teapot when the door of the best parlour swung open and two nuns appeared. One, old and frail, her round face heavily lined, her back stooped, shuffled in on two walking sticks. The other, who although her face also bore witness to the passage of time, her eyes were filled with an ever-youthful sparkle. Her steps were no longer springing, her knees and hips beginning to pay the price for a lifetime of devoted service to God and neighbour, but she stood as tall and strong, if slightly rounder, as she ever had done.

"You sent for us, Mother," the younger nun said.

"Yes Sister Julienne," Mother Winifred replied, "you both have a visitor."

Shelagh looked round the side of her wingback chair towards the door to where her two former colleagues and Sisters in Christ were stood. The two nun's faces lit up at the sight of their visitor.

"Shelagh," Sisters Julienne and Evangelina chorused.

Shelagh stood up and hugged firstly Sister Evangelina, "alright that's enough soppy stuff," the elderly nun had barked, and then turned to Sister Julienne. Shelagh placed her arms around Sister Julienne's shoulders, but something prevented her pulling her into a tight embrace. She felt Sister Julienne's hands in the small of her back, but similarly, she did not pull Shelagh tightly to her.

"It is wonderful to see you Shelagh," Sister Julienne said, a kind look on her face as they broke apart.

"It is wonderful to see you too Sister," Shelagh replied awkwardly.

"Shall we have some tea and cake?" Mother Winifred suggested brightly.

"I thought you'd never ask!" Sister Evangelina said, slumping into an armchair with a thud and a clatter of walking sticks, "oh bother!"

"I'll get them" Shelagh replied, picking up the sticks and propping them against the arm of Sister Evangelina's chair, before returning to her own. Sister Julienne sat opposite her, and Shelagh desperately tried to avoid her eye contact, if anything was going to be let out into the open, it would only happen when the two were alone.

The ensuing conversations over tea and cake were pleasant and jovial. The four women reminisced and gossiped, but Shelagh suspected that both Mother Winifred and Sister Julienne did not believe that the only reason for her visit that day was for a gossip. As they drained the last dregs of tea from the pot and brushed the final cake crumbs off their clothes, Mother Winifred said,

"Sister Julienne, why don't you take Shelagh for a walk around the grounds, perhaps down to the old mill, it is such a lovely day."

"Yes, alright then," Sister Julienne answered brightly, "that's if you would like to Shelagh?"

The two women's eyes met properly for the first time, and it was at that moment that Shelagh realised that she wanted nothing more in the entire world than to be with the kindly soul who was staring back at her.

"I would like that very much," Shelagh replied.

"Come along then," Sister Julienne said getting slowly to her feet, the brightness remaining in her voice.

Shelagh and Sister Julienne left the parlour, crossed the tiled hallway, down a passageway and out the back door into the garden. They walked in silence across the perfectly manicured lawn, meandered between flower beds, vegetable patches and fruit trees until they reached the banks of the River Lavant which bordered the Mother House's land. The water sparkled in the sunshine, the gentle breeze ruffled the bulrushes, and Coots and Mallards drifted lazily past on the current. A wooden jetty was built into the opposite bank, and further downstream, the shell of the Victorian mill house stood lonely and forgotten. The two women sat on the grass, silently watching.

"It's nearly twenty-five years since I was last here," Shelagh said after a moment, her gaze following the gentle curve of the river bank, "when you sent me to recuperate when I broke my shoulder falling off my bicycle, do you remember?"

Sister Julienne laughed, "Yes I remember, vividly," she added, "you kicked up an awful fuss; you were convinced you were fine."

Shelagh felt herself blush, unused to anyone reminding her of past misdemeanours.

"I found healing here," Shelagh continued.

"What do you want to find this time?" Sister Julienne asked.

Shelagh's attention left the river and focused solely on Sister Julienne.

"I don't know," Shelagh said mournfully, "I don't really know anything anymore. Who I am, what I'm doing, or what I should be doing."

"What made you come today, after all this time, there must have been a reason."

"Jules told me to," Shelagh replied honestly, but still unwilling to elaborate further.

"Your lodger," Sister Julienne began, "how does she…"

"She just, does," Shelagh sighed, "she's very clever, and notices everything, and she's so kind, I just,"

"Couldn't not tell her?"

Shelagh nodded, "she was having breakfast with us when your letter arrived the other morning, I was telling Patrick what you had said, and she asked who you were. And then, Patrick told her I used to be a nun, and somehow she worked out that I really wanted to see you and told me to go and visit."

Sister Julienne looked thoughtfully at Shelagh for a moment, wondering why she could not have made that decision for herself, and was saddened by that thought. She then said, "what do you mean by you don't know who you are, or what you should be doing?"

"As Patrick's health has deteriorated, the further and further I feel from him, sometimes he barely knows me, and, we, well, we are rarely a couple in, that sense, these days. And now the children have gone too, the two things I wanted so much from life, to be a wife, and a mother, seem to barely exist anymore. I don't know what my purpose is anymore."

"Timothy and Angela haven't gone Shelagh, they've just grown up, as all children do," Sister Julienne said, looking at Shelagh affectionately. "And Carlisle is not that far really, and, where's Angela again?"

Shelagh suddenly burst into uncontrollable tears, and found herself automatically burying her face in Sister Julienne's shoulder. Sister Julienne cradled Shelagh's delicate form in her arms, and ran her fingers through Shelagh's iron-grey curls.

"Where's Angela?" she repeated, barely above a whisper into Shelagh's ear.

"I don't know," Shelagh moaned, "we haven't heard from her for well over a year, she left a note one morning saying that Matthias was taking her round the world. Apart from a few postcards, we've heard nothing since." Her voice trailed off into a fresh wave of sobs.

"Shelagh, why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to, really I did, but I felt so ashamed, I didn't want to disappoint you. I didn't want to admit to you that I had failed as a mother."

"You have not failed as a mother, Shelagh, please do not think like that, sometimes things just happen, things which we cannot predict, and that we cannot change. And I would never judge you, or anyone, so cruelly."

"I know," Shelagh sniffed. She looked up at Sister Julienne, "I want my little girl back, I, just need someone to love."

"I thought there must have been a reason why you allowed a young woman to rent Timothy's old room," Sister Julienne replied philosophically. When Shelagh's wide tear-filled eyes met hers she said, "I'm right aren't I Shelagh?"

Shelagh was unable to answer verbally, but Sister Julienne felt her nod against her shoulder.

"Does she know?"

"I've never said, obviously," Shelagh replied, "but knowing her and what I've told her, it would not surprise me if she's worked it out."

"Have you tried searching for Angela?" Sister Julienne asked, "Have you contacted the foreign office, or the embassy of wherever she was going."

"I have no idea where was going," Shelagh replied, "and I really don't know about contacting the foreign office, I wouldn't want to cause a fuss." Her insides squirmed at the sight of Sister Julienne's face, "well," she continued, "perhaps there is no harm in asking."

"You need to find your little girl, for all of your sakes. You cannot live with that uncertainty anymore; it is killing both of you. Nor can you replace her, with anyone. You have a great capacity to love, Shelagh, so look after your young friend, but remember, she can only ever be that."

"I know," Shelagh replied, "but I just find it all so hard."

"My dear, Miss Mannion, Sister Bernadette, Shelagh, Mrs Turner, I have called you many names over the last thirty years, but you are still the same strong, brave, determined and loving woman I have always known you to be. Trust in yourself, your family, your friends and the Lord, and all will be well."

"I do hope so," Shelagh murmured.

"And your purpose in life, as it always has been, is to love, and be loved, now, come," Sister Julienne said, clambering to her feet before taking Shelagh's hand, pulling her up, then leading her down the path towards the mill house, "let us walk back the long way, I always feel it is a more pleasant route."


	9. Chapter 9

Having succeeded in her plan to send Shelagh off to Chichester, it dawned on Jules as she and Patrick waved her off, that she had no idea what to do with Patrick all day. She had never been alone with him for longer than it took Shelagh to run to the shops, nor had she ever really had a proper conversation with him. Although she far from regretted the scheme, she wished she had thought it through a little more.

As she and Patrick sat eating their way through plates of toasted muffins, Jules tried to think of something which they could do together, or somewhere Patrick might like to go, but the longer her mind remained blank, the greater the feeling of frustration became. As she washed up she thought,

"I must learn to think, Benji was right, I'm not one for keeping my mouth shut."

The thought of her friend, and the remains of what had been a stunning bruise on her knee, gave her an idea. The idea developed further as she watched Patrick shuffle from the table to his end of the sofa. He slumped down, a mournful look on his face, his eyes searching for a reason to be. She went over to him and said,

"Patrick, I need to go and get something from, my friend's house, and then I'll be back. I'll be as quick as I can, alright?"

Patrick nodded in reply, as though unconvinced of Jules' intentions.

"I'll see you soon," Jules finished.

Fifteen minutes later, Jules was stood outside St Anne's presbytery. Fr Benjamin cast a puzzled look over her as he opened the door.

"Jules, what on earth are you up to?"

"Sorry," Jules panted, out of breath from running, "flying visit, can I come in for a second?"

"Of, course," Fr Benjamin said, his silvery eyes narrowing in a combination of bewilderment and intrigue, "how can I help?"

"Can I borrow that?" Jules asked, noticing that today the migratory wheelchair was at the bottom of the stairs next to the coat stand.

"Um," Fr Benjamin began, the look of bewilderment now apparent across his entire face, "what if someone comes to collect it while you're gone?"

"Really, is that likely to happen? How long has it been here?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he said unconvincingly.

"That would be miraculous Ben, not mysterious," she laughed, kicking off the brake and gripping the handles, "and yes I know he does those too." Seeing the disapproving look on her friend's face she continued "Shelagh is visiting friends in Chichester and I want to take Patrick out for the day. I'll bring it back tonight, I promise."

"Have you been up to something?"

Jules looked at Fr Benjamin over the top of her spectacles, and said, "No, not exactly, I just gave some, help," she finished, emphasising the final word. "Now, I need to get back, can I borrow this?" raising the handles of the wheelchair so the back wheels rose an inch or so off the floor.

"Alright then," Fr Benjamin said, and Jules began to head out of the door, "just don't break it."

"I won't," Jules called over her shoulder as she began to run up the driveway and back onto the main road.

"What's that for?" Patrick asked as Jules dragged the heavy wheelchair through the front door.

"I'm taking you for a day out Patrick," Jules replied, "where do you want to go?"

"Can we go to see Tim and Lucy?" he replied, a sparkle radiating from his eyes.

Jules' face fell, and she sucked the inside of her bottom lip, trying to think of an answer to this question. She looked at him kindly, trying to disguise the feeling of great pity she felt for him.

"Cumbria's a bit far to go just for a day Patrick," Jules said, "and," she added as she saw the sparkle suddenly extinguish, "it would be a little unkind to go to see Tim and Lucy without Shelagh. Wouldn't it? I'm sure she'd want to go too."

"Hmm, I suppose you are right," Patrick sighed, "in that case could we walk through the Docklands to Greenwich Park? And there's a nice pub on the way, I haven't been to the pub for ages."

"Yes of course," Jules replied.

"Well if we're going out, we better get ready," he said brightly, springing up from the sofa with such vigour that he nearly toppled over. Jules ran to catch him.

"Steady on Patrick," Jules said, her hands on his forearms, steadying him.

"It's a long time since I've had somewhere to go," he replied mournfully.

Jules looked into the old man's clouded eyes, and for reasons she could barely comprehend herself, threw both arms around his neck. She flinched slightly as one of his hands unexpectedly found her back, but did not pull away. She let go of him and her eyes met his, trying to read his reaction.

"My Angela used to hug me like that, a very long time ago," he sighed. He turned away from Jules towards the photographs on the bookcase.

"I'm so sorry Patrick," Jules gasped, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You haven't upset me, my dear child," Jules flinched at his choice of phrase, "you just reminded me of happier times, now I suspect that it will be too warm to wear a tie today, or do you feel it is inappropriate for a gentleman to not wear a tie on a day out?"

"There is no need to dress up for me Patrick," Jules replied, "anything you wear will be most appropriate."

Ten minutes later they were ready to go, with Patrick settled in the wheelchair on the driveway. Jules was just closing the door when Patrick called,

"I've left my sunhat inside; can you get it for me?"

"Of course, where is it?"

"I left it on our bed."

Jules turned to Patrick, a feeling of awkwardness churning inside her that, she suspected, was also painted across her face. The hat's location was behind one of the two doors which she had not been allowed through before.

"Are you sure it's alright for me to go and get it Patrick, Shelagh won't mind will she?"

"Just go and get it," he snapped irritably, "otherwise we will be late."

Not wishing to anger him further, Jules decided not to argue, and went back into the house, bouncing up the stairs onto the landing. She stopped outside Patrick and Shelagh's part-open bedroom door. She pushed it open and crept inside.

The room was immaculate, the pale walls contrasted with soft furnishings in bright and fresh greens and pale blues, an ornate wrought-iron bed dominated the central space, a wooden dressing table and full length mirror stood by the window on what Jules assumed must be Shelagh's side of the bed, and a fitted wardrobes lined the wall opposite the bed. A pair of small chests of drawers stood either side of the head of the bed, Patrick's covered with well-thumbed books and aftershave bottles, Shelagh's with a carriage clock, photographs and a small, clear plastic, box.

Patrick's hat was not on their bed as he had maintained, and deciding that the awkwardness of rummaging in their room was marginally preferable to further provoking an angry outburst from Patrick, Jules began to search. Having discovered it was not in the wardrobe, she lay on the floor on Patrick's side to see if it had disappeared under the bed, and saw that it was right on the other side, by Shelagh's bedside drawers. Scrambling to her feet, Jules wandered over to where the hat must have fallen off the bed.

As she picked up the well-loved Panama hat, she noticed the contents of the box next to Shelagh's carriage clock. Inside were a small, off-white butterfly and a folded piece of paper, crumpled and tatty at the edges, as though it had seen a lot of life prior to being placed inside it. On the paper, in the now-faded graphite pencil letters of a child's hand, were written the words,

_"__Dear Sister Bernadette,_

_This is a Pieris Brassicae. I found him dead on…" _

The rest of the letter was obscured by the folds in the paper made to fit it into the box.

"Sister Bernadette must have been Shelagh's name while she was in the Order," Jules thought, thinking back to Patrick's outburst from the other day, "I wonder why someone sent her a butterfly?"

Deciding it was probably not appropriate to linger in there now that she had retrieved what she had been sent for, Jules set her curiosity aside, left the bedroom, and went back downstairs to Patrick.

"Did you get lost?" Patrick asked when she joined him.

"No, your hat had fallen off the bed," Jules replied, handing it to Patrick, "I couldn't see it."

Jules gripped the wheelchair's handles and began to push Patrick up Bermondsey Lane then continued towards the Docklands. Patrick would occasionally call out directions and point out various landmarks to her, some still standing as he remembered them, others the replacements for those he knew. Each building had a story, some as clear as day in Patrick's mind, others clouded by the fogs of time.

They reached the river bank and followed the Thames' course for a few hundred metres. As they rounded a bend, they saw two men sat on the bank, fishing rods in their hands, one a few years older than Patrick, but strong and thick-set, and the other in his early twenties, tall and thin with dark hair. The elder man noticed Jules and Patrick approaching, stared at them for a moment and then shouted,

"Cor blimey, is tha' you Docta T?"

"Hello Fred," Patrick said, his face lighting up at the sight of his old friend.

"Aw it is you," Fred beamed, "must be ten yers, since I las' saw ya, when I retired from Nonna'us. You 'member me grandson Ant'ony don't yeh?" he finished, pulling the young man beside him by the arm. Ant'ony, meet Patrick Turner, GP extraordinaire and all roun' good guy o' Popla'"

"Hello Patrick," Anthony said, nervously holding his hand out.

"You weren't even walking last time I saw you Anthony," Patrick replied, taking Anthony's offered hand, "it was at your sister's christening. What are you and Samantha doing now?"

Jules felt her jaw drop, part stunned, part saddened at how Patrick could remember details of events from over twenty years ago, yet could barely remember what happened yesterday.

"I'm working as an accountant in the City," Anthony replied in an eloquent accent, "and Sammy has just started working as a secretary for a law firm."

"Righ' cleva pair, my Dolly's kids are," Fred continued, patting Anthony on the back so hard it almost winded him, "now what'a' you up to these days An…" He stopped and surveyed Jules from top to toe. "Wait, you're not Angela, wron' colla 'air, Angela's is red."

"No, I'm not Angela," Jules replied, not daring to look at Patrick, "I'm Jules, I'm renting a room from the Turner's while I'm working in London. Shelagh is away for the day, so Patrick and I are having a day out too."

"Yes," Patrick piped up, "we're going to The Bird in Hand for steak sandwiches, aren't we Jules?" He seemed completely unaware that Fred had mentioned his daughter.

"Err, um, yes," Jules said, trying not to show her complete ignorance of Patrick's plans.

"Do you want to join us?" Patrick asked, "we can have a good catch up, and you two can get to know each other," he finished looking between Jules and Anthony with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Sounds marv'lous," Fred replied, "slim pickin's 'ere today anyways," pointing at his rods and empty baskets. "I'll jus' pack the gear up and we'll join ya."

The four of them left the river bank and headed towards The Bird in Hand. Although its exterior looked a little bedraggled, inside it was smartly decorated and behind it was a sunny yard with hanging baskets of flowers, wooden tables and colourful parasols. The four of them polished off several pints of ale and a steak sandwich each, and although Jules and Anthony found each other pleasant company, they were both far more enthralled with the stories which Fred and Patrick were reminding each other about. Stories of nuns stuck in bathrooms, escaped pigs, Cub Scouts and alcoholic ginger beer had the two old men rolling with laughter, and their joy was so infectious that their young companions, despite not knowing the characters involved, were fascinated by the tales. Watching Patrick so happy, Jules could not help grinning from ear to ear.

As they drained their third pints Fred stood up and said,

"Bin luvly seein' you ag'in Patrick, an' nice ta meet you young Jules, though, I mus' dash, there's a nice lil' filly in the las' race at Newmar'et, so gotta get to the bookies. Give my luv to Shelagh won't ya?

"I will Fred, goodbye now," Patrick said.

"Nice to meet you Fred, and you too Anthony," Jules added as they left.

"Anthony's a nice chap isn't he?" Patrick said after a moment, looking at Jules with a now familiar mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"Yes he is," she replied, "but before you start playing Cupid, he's already courting someone."

"How do you know?"

"Men don't keep pictures of their sister in their wallets do they?"

"You notice everything don't you? Even really little things."

"Sometimes the little things are the most important," Jules replied, "now, there is the little matter of getting the rest of the way to Greenwich Park, it is still a good walk from here, so we better get going."

Three-quarters of an hour later, Jules and Patrick arrived in Greenwich Park. They wandered through the parkland for a while before Patrick asked to stop by a group of old Chestnut trees.

"Is everything alright Patrick?"

"Do you know that song, about a chestnut tree?"

"I'm not sure I do Patrick."

Patrick began to sing, his voice a warm baritone:

"Underneath the spreading chestnut tree, Where I held you on my knee, Oh how happy we could be! 'Neath the spreading chestnut tree,

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree, Where I held you on my knee, There we'll raise a family, 'Neath the spreading chestnut tree."

In another situation, Jules would have applauded such a vocal display, but the poignancy of the words and their current location stopped her. She looked at Patrick, watching and waiting.

"Shelagh and I used to bring the children down here in fine weather, for walks and picnics and bike rides. We always seemed to find our way to this patch of trees, that one over there has a niche between the roots where Shelagh always sat, Angela took her first proper steps just over there, and Tim broke his hand falling out of that tree." Patrick sighed, "Family life, it doesn't happen anymore."

"It must be hard for you both, not seeing your children."

"We haven't seen Tim and Lucy since Christmas, and Robert, our grandson, must have grown so much since then, and we've missed it. And their second baby is due soon."

"Will you go to Carlisle to visit?"

Patrick shook his head. "Shelagh doesn't drive and I'm not really able to do long train journeys anymore, besides, we wouldn't want to be in the way."

"Why don't you invite them to visit, when the baby's born?"

"I suppose that might be possible, and, quite nice," Patrick mused.

"Why don't you write to Tim when we get home?"

"He'll never be able to read my writing," Patrick said sadly.

"Then I'll write it for you, my handwriting is messy but I don't have Par…"

Jules stopped herself, and bit her bottom lip. She tried to think of something to say that would redeem the situation, but Patrick said kindly,

"I'd be very surprised if you hadn't noticed that little thing. Now," he said in a jovial tone, I've had enough walking for today, let's flag a cab down, and I think I have some writing paper in my desk."

"You've had enough walking, what about me?" Jules said mockingly.

"You're young, and full of life," Patrick said knowingly.


	10. Chapter 10

After a cab ride home, a cup of tea, and a rummage about for some writing paper, Jules and Patrick settled down at the table to write a letter to Timothy. Jules had removed a slightly chewed, blue Biro from her work bag and as she twirled it between her fingers, Patrick caught sight of it and said,

"You can't write a letter to my son with that!"

"What's wrong with it?" Jules enquired, "It's what I always write with."

"It just won't do," Patrick said, walking over to the dresser and, opening the top drawer, produced a silver-nibbed fountain pen and a well of jet black ink. He shuffled back to the table, handed them to Jules and continued, "This is my letter writing pen, I'd like you to use it."

Jules looked at the pen that she had just been given then twirled it round her fingers as she had done with her Biro, the weight of it almost unnatural in her hand. Having never owned a fountain pen, let alone one so fine, she was terrified of the thought of breaking it or upturning the inkwell across the table. Nervously, she dipped the pen into the inkwell, and then looked at Patrick expectantly.

"You'd better start with '_Dear Timothy,'_"

The room was silent apart from the gentle scratching of fountain pen nib on paper. As she finished, Jules' eyes met Patrick's. He continued to dictate, slowly and carefully, but fluent and distinct.

"_It has been a long time since I last wrote to you. I think it was just before your Cambridge Finals wasn't it? And for that I must apologise. _

_In that letter all those years ago, I remember telling you how proud your mother and I were of you, how we couldn't believe that our little boy was just a few questions away from obtaining a degree from one of the best universities in the world, and how we hoped that this was the first of many steps along a long and successful road for you. And…_"

Patrick paused, Jules watched him, the pen hovering above the paper.

"…_I finished that letter by saying how much the three of us missed you, and how we all wished you would visit more often. I write now, to tell you much the same thing. Didn't I always tell you to listen to your father?!_

Jules could not help hearing her own father's voice in her mind, repeating those words as he did so often.

_Returning to serious matters, I must be honest with you Tim, my boy. My health is deteriorating, and it has been for some time now. Parkinson's is a cruel foe; there are some days where I don't think I even know what is happening. Your mother has given up so much to care for me, and I wish that I could show her just how much I appreciate her. She never complains, but I know that, deep down, she isn't happy. That beautiful sparkle in her eyes has long since faded. Your sister leaving further compounded the issue._"

Jules looked up from the paper, wondering whether Patrick would elaborate further. He continued.

"_Although she would never tell you herself, your mother misses you dearly. I'm not really fit to travel far anymore, and she will not leave me now, but I can honestly say that she wants little more than to see you, Lucy and the children, and yes Tim, I said children. Will you consider coming to visit once the baby's born? I'm inviting you to visit. Obviously I don't mean immediately, but when Lucy is well enough to travel, and things are settled, we would love to meet our new grandchild. And we would like to get to know Robert a little better, he must have grown so much since Christmas, I probably won't recognise him!_"

Jules' fingers curled in awkwardness as she wrote down that sentence's final clause.

"_Please think about it. I know it is a long way, and that Lucy will take persuading, but_"

Patrick paused, searching for words. A spark of comprehension flickered in Jules' mind.

"_I miss you so much. Please write back soon, try not to leave it as long as I did! _

_With all my love and best wishes,_"

"Do you want to sign it?" Jules said, holding out the pen.

Patrick nodded and, taking the pen and letter from Jules, his trembling hand scrawled three barely legible characters across the bottom of the page,

"_Dad_"

"Do you want to add a post-script?"

"No, I have said all I need to say," Patrick replied.

"In that case," Jules paused to blow Patrick's wobbly signature dry, "I better take this to the letter box so it goes first thing on Monday, what's their address?" she finished, folding the letter into an envelope and sealing it.

"I can't remember," Patrick said after a moment, his brow, furrowed in concentration, trying so hard to recall, "it will be in the black address book on the table in the hall."

Jules took the pen and letter into the hallway and was pleased to find the small, black-leather-bound address book exactly where Patrick said it was. Sitting on the stairs she began to flick through the address book. It was old, many of the pages were loose, or had completely torn and were shoved back in, in the wrong place. Many of the entries had been changed multiple times, as friends and family moved house, married, divorced, remarried, and, in a few cases, died. As she flicked through, Jules noticed names which somehow were familiar. Names like Tom and Trixie Hereward, Samuel and Jean Monk, Patsy Mount, she realised, had all featured in Fred's stories over lunch that afternoon. Turning a few more pages, a Jenny, a Cynthia and a Chummy and Peter also featured. Were these the ones in Fred's stories too? These names seemed to have the most amendments of the entire book, but very few of them seemed to have the correct details now. Chummy and Peter Noakes' entry contained a crossed out address in Poplar with the words "c/o Christian Aid" scrawled across it in red ink. Eventually finding T for Turner between L and M, Jules copied down the address, affixed one of the stamps to it which she had found inside the book and then stuck her head around the sitting room door and said,

"I'm going to post this, Patrick, and take the wheelchair back. Then I'll make something nice for tea. I'll be as quick as I can."

Patrick nodded. Having been bright and sparkly all day, he suddenly looked very frail and tired.

After taking a slight detour to the letter box, Jules wearily pushed the wheelchair up to Fr Benjamin's front door and rapped her knuckles on it.

"One wheelchair returned safe and sound, as promised," Jules said as Fr Benjamin opened the door.

"Goodness you look exhausted," Fr Benjamin said, taking the wheelchair and pulling it up into the house, "how far have you pushed that thing today."

"From Stepney to Greenwich, via most of the Docklands," Jules replied, and seeing her friend's expression, she added, "thankfully, Patrick decided a cab ride home was a good idea."

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" Fr Benjamin asked.

"I can't stop, Shelagh still isn't back from Chichester, and I daren't leave Patrick any longer than necessary."

"In that case I better get you home then."

"You don't have a car Ben," Jules said eying up her friend with suspicion.

"Who said anything about taking you home by car?" Fr Benjamin said; a sparkle in his silvery eyes, "thirty seconds," he finished disappearing into the house before re-emerging with a set of keys and a Tupperware box. "Almond sponge," he continued, reading Jules' expression, "I don't like nuts so you have it, and the keys to my new toy."

Jules took the box from Fr Benjamin and followed him round the side of the church to where a lean-to garage stood. Opening the door, Fr Benjamin said "ta-da" and spread his arms out wide, to show off an old, black, Triumph Tiger. "Your carriage awaits!"

"Where on earth did you get that?"

"Fr Dominic and I found it half-buried in here when we were looking for the bunting for the bazaar. The parish council said if I got it started I could have it. So shall we?"

With the cake securely tied to the back of the Tiger, the two of them clambered onto the seat. Jules wrapped her arms around Fr Benjamin's middle as he kick-started the old bike into life. With a roar and a cloud of smoke, they sped off out of the garage, up the driveway and out into the evening sun.

As they approached the turn into Bermondsey Lane, Jules noticed a familiar small, grey haired figure walking towards them. Realising who it was, she said.

"Step on it Benji, I've just seen Shelagh, I've got to get home before she does." His response came in the form of a blast of the old Triumph's throttle.

They skidded to a halt outside number 24, and Jules jumped off the bike and untied the cake as fast as she could.

"Thank you," she said, resisting the temptation to run her fingers through his long, windswept, hair with all her might.

"My pleasure, as always," he replied, "now" he continued, turning round to look up the street, "you better get in before you get told off by your landlady. See you tomorrow at church."

"Yes you will. Bye Ben."

As tempting as it was to watch her friend speed off, Jules ran into the house as fast as she could.

"Would you like some almond sponge Patrick?" she called from the hall.

When she received no response, she put her head around the door and found that Patrick was fast asleep on the sofa, his breathing steady and content. Knowing that Shelagh would be in imminently she flicked the switch of the kettle and began cutting two slices of almond sponge. Shelagh's key clicked in the door seconds later.

When the cheerful greeting which Shelagh usually gave on returning home was not immediately forthcoming Jules began to worry. Had she not enjoyed her day as much as she, Jules, and Patrick had? Abandoning the singing kettle and the part-cut almond sponge, Jules wandered into the hallway and said brightly,

"How was Chichester, have you had a good day? It's been marvellous here!"

"Yes I noticed you had had a good day," Shelagh snapped. There was a ferocity in her eyes which disconcerted Jules.

"What do you mean Shelagh?" she asked.

"I saw you," Shelagh growled, "out on that motorbike, with your arms wrapped round that, man."

"And!" Jules snapped tartly, drawing herself up straight and folding her arms across her chest.

"You left Patrick, my husband, here, while you went, eloping, you, you."

"You can stop right there," Jules said, attempting to remain calm, and control the venom that was rising inside her, "first of all, I was on the back of Fr Benjamin's motorbike, so as much as I love him, eloping was hardly on the agenda, secondly, he was giving me a lift home so that I didn't have to leave Patrick any longer than necessary, thirdly the reason I was at Ben's was to return a wheelchair I had borrowed to take your husband out for the day, and fourthly, who are you to speak to me like that?"

Jules' final statement resonated with Shelagh and realising what she had done, she felt her cheeks flush scarlet.

"You took Patrick out?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, we had such a wonderful time."

"I owe you an apology. I'm sorry Jules; I don't know what came over me."

"A combination of tiredness, abiding love, and a small amount of fear and mistrust of a young girl," Jules said as a small smile crept over her face, "don't worry about the last bit, not offence taken."

"Perhaps, a little," Shelagh replied quietly.

"Come here," Jules said holding her arms outstretched, and then wrapping them round Shelagh as she joined her. "Apology accepted. Now, I've just boiled the kettle and Ben sent some almond sponge, come and tell me about your day, and I'll tell you about mine and Patrick's."

"Hang on, where is Patrick?" Shelagh asked, letting go of Jules.

Jules put her finger to her lip and pointed through the sitting room door. Shelagh crept to the doorway and could not help smiling at the sight of Patrick fast asleep.

"We've had a very busy day," Jules yawned, "now I think we both need a cup of tea."

"Yes," Shelagh replied, her mind, and heart suddenly flooded by waves of emotions which she could not quite comprehend, "I think we do."


	11. Chapter 11

Jules handed Shelagh her tea and cake before sitting opposite her at the kitchen table.

"Oh, almond sponge, my favourite," Shelagh said gleefully.

"Really," Jules replied, "I'll have to let Ben know in case he gets given any more."

They sat eating and drinking in silence for a moment, and both had make significant headway into their slices of cake before Jules repeated her original question.

"Chichester was lovely, I wasn't much older than you last time I was at the Mother House, and it was nice to be there again," Shelagh replied.

"And how was Sister Julienne?"

"She was very well, not quite as spritely as she once was, but she is the wrong side of seventy now, as she puts it."

Shelagh's eyes turned downcast, Jules watched her, trying to decipher Shelagh's expression.

"You are very fond of her aren't you?" she said after a moment.

"She has always been there for me, always been someone I could turn to," Shelagh replied, "I lost my mother when I was very young. My father tried his best to bring me up, but, well, when I joined the Order, Sister Julienne became the mother figure, and not just in the religious sense, that my life had been lacking."

"Oh goodness, I'm so sorry!" Jules stammered, her voice slightly choked, "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"My mother was carrying twins," Shelagh continued, "and she went into labour prematurely, and without any trained help, this was in a tiny village in Aberdeenshire in the late-1920s," she explained as she saw Jules narrow eyes widen in disbelief and her jaw drop, "both my brothers were stillborn, and my mother haemorrhaged. She didn't make it. I was three at the time."

Jules felt the hot prickle of tears in her eyes, but desperately tried not to cry. "No wonder Shelagh has tried so hard to be a good mother," she thought.

"Sister Julienne gave me the maternal care that I needed, and then helped me to give the maternal care I so longed to give."

Shelagh paused and looked across the table, her topaz blue eyes meeting Jules' chestnut brown. Jules, in awkwardness, broke the contact and stared at her crumb-covered plate.

"I had struggled with my feelings for Patrick and my desire for a family for many months before I told her about how I felt," Shelagh continued, "I thought it was wrong, but Sister Julienne told me otherwise, that it wasn't a bad thing to love a man, to love his son, or to dream of one day holding his baby in your arms, that wanting all those things wasn't going against God as I had thought."

Jules noticed Shelagh reposition her arms, though her exact movements were masked by the table. Jules' thoughts then turned to her own mother, the telephone call she should have made, the photographs she was going to send.

"A mother's love is very special," Jules replied quietly, fiddling with her hands as she did so.

"Yes, it is," Shelagh murmured, this time trying not to look at Jules, "so how was your day?" she continued, steering the conversation in a slightly more comfortable direction.

"Tiring," Jules replied, grinning, "my legs are killing me!"

"Where did you take Patrick?"

"He gave me a guided tour of Poplar and the Docklands, and then we met Fred Buckle and Anthony, his grandson, fishing in the Thames."

"Really," Shelagh said, "I haven't seen Fred for years, how is he?"

"Brimming with life, a right good laugh, and so full of stories, he and Patrick were reminiscing for hours."

"Oh," Shelagh replied forlornly. "Fred was always full of stories, and riddles, and jokes, he always brought a cheer to Nonnatus House, that's the convent where I lived," she finished, a little brighter.

Jules nodded in understanding before continuing, "So the four of us went to the pub for lunch, and then after Fred and Anthony left we went to Greenwich Park."

"No wonder you're tired, pushing him all that way, what did you do in the Park?" she asked, although she suspected that she knew the answer.

"We just wandered, chatted for a while and then when we were both tired, had a rest in a shady patch of trees, before deciding that a cab ride home was better than walking," Jules replied.

At that moment Patrick appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, still half asleep, his clothing dishevelled and his unkempt white fringe flopping across his furrowed brow. Shelagh jumped up from the table, put her arms around him and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Patrick's arms found their way around Shelagh, his trembling hands rustling the material of her blouse.

"You're back," Patrick slurred, his voice as indicative of his tiredness as his appearance.

"Yes, I am," Shelagh replied, letting go of him, "and I've heard you've had a nice day."

"We did, I think," Patrick replied without any real conviction, before trying, and failing, to stifle a weary yawn.

"Come on, you," Shelagh continued kindly, taking her husband's hand "I think it's time for bed, we could both do with an early night. Goodnight Jules and, thank you."

"Goodnight, both of you."

An hour later, Shelagh lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Patrick had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow; his steady breathing was now floating through the darkness of their bedroom. Although she was exhausted, she could not sleep, for her mind and heart were swimming with the cocktail of emotions she had felt that day.

She was glad that she had heeded Jules' suggestion of going to Chichester, despite the fear and apprehension she had felt all the way there. Only her mother's words could have given her the reassurance that she needed, the reassurance that she had not failed in life, that it was not her fault the way things had turned out, and that she still had a purpose, the same purpose she had always had, to love, and be loved. She wished now that she had not left it so long.

She turned onto her side so she faced the window, plumping up her pillow to try and make herself more comfortable as she did so. She wondered how to go about carrying out Sister Julienne's suggestion of finding Angela. "Where does one start, when trying to locate a daughter who could be anywhere in the world? Should I contact the Foreign Office? Yes. Probably. Definitely. Yes."

Her mind then turned to the young woman who she assumed was now fast asleep on the other side of the landing. Sister Julienne, as usual, was right when she said that no-one could replace her daughter, and she knew that no-one could. Yet, even after her mother's warning, what did she do? Tell Jules off for being on a man's motorbike. She had scolded Jules like she would have scolded a wayward teenager, her wayward teenager. Although she admitted her fear that Jules had left Patrick alone in the house she had been, she now realised, almost as fearful of Jules' companion. The sight of her with an older man, and a fairly handsome one at that, judging from the brief look she had had of Fr Benjamin, made an unfathomable set of emotions erupt inside her. Fear, anger, resentment too perhaps, mixed with concern, and, dare she admit it, love. She knew she should not feel like this, but she could not help wanting to care for the young woman now in her life, wanting to protect her. "What if he took her away? What if he was like him?" she thought.

"But he isn't like him, he can't be like him," she thought, turning so she was staring at the ceiling again, "and I know that, and even if he was, who am I to tell her?" Jules' words resonated in her head, for she was neither a child, nor hers. The conversation with Sister Julienne by the river replayed itself in her mind.

"I must find Angela," she whispered to the darkness, "for all our sakes."

After Shelagh and Patrick had gone to bed Jules had remained downstairs. Curled up on the sofa, she had begun to flick through a report she was supposed to be reading, but found the dry text uninspiring. She threw the book aside and stretching out, yawned, before clambering to her feet ready to head up to bed.

As she crept into the hallway, a light from outside caught the curve of receiver of the telephone. She thought about the conversations she had had with both Shelagh and Patrick that day, and despite the hour, she knew what she needed, and wanted, to do. Jules' heart began to race as she picked up the receiver, and dialled her parents' number, the pace increasing with every ring.

"Hello," came Catherine Thompson's slightly suspicious sounding response.

"Hello Mum, it's me," Jules replied with a little apprehension.

"So you've remembered how to use a telephone then?" Catherine said tartly, "it's been nearly two months Julie-Marie, did you not think to let me know you were alright?"

"Oh Mum don't be like that," Jules pleaded, "I'm sorry, I've been, busy."

"Too busy to write? To pick up the phone?"

"Um, well, with work, and moving house, and, I just didn't get round to it," Jules replied honestly, her voice trailing off guiltily.

"Hmm I migh'av guessed," Catherine replied more gently, the softness of her East Midlands accent becoming more apparent the calmer she became, "so you're not dossing on Ben's floor anymore."

"It wasn't his floor, it was his sofa, and no, I have a proper job, so I'm renting a proper room, and the address is 24 Bermondsey Lane, Stepney, London."

"'ang on duck, I'll get a pen, what was it?"

Jules repeated her new address.

"Now," Catherine continued, "You haven't phoned at this time o' night jus' to tell me your address, alrate duck?"

"I'm fine Mum, and I'm sorry about the time, I've had a busy day." Jules paused to gather breath, "I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, and to apologise for not telling you that more often."

"You sure you're alrate?" Catherine replied.

"Of course I'm alright Mum," Jules said unconvincingly.

"What's happened?"

Taking a deep breath, Jules spent the next five minutes explaining the day she had had, and what Shelagh had told her since she moved in with the Turners.

"So, I phoned just in case you've ever felt I've forgotten you, or that I don't love you, or I don't want you anymore," Jules added to the end of her monologue, "a mother's love is very special, and, I don't think I've always appreciated it, or you, before. Thank you Mum. Is Dad there?"

"No he's on nights this week."

"Tell him I love him too."

"I will, and I luv you too darlin' and so does your Dad," Catherine replied, "and I know you haven't forgotten us, that you luv us all, it would just be nice to see you a bit more often."

Catherine's words, so reminiscent of those she had heard Patrick dictate several hours previously, choked Jules. It had been a long time since she had visited her parents' house, for one reason or another. Given what she had seen, and learned, and written, over the past few weeks, putting a visit off any longer would be verging on hypocritical.

"I'll come soon," Jules promised, "I'm not sure when yet, with work," she continued anticipating her mother's next question, "but as soon as I can, I'll come for the weekend."

A plan was hatching in Jules' mind, she just hoped the recipient of a certain letter would co-operate.

"That will be nice, let us know."

"Will do."

"Now," Catherine yawned, "I'm tired and you my luv need your beauty sleep, be off wiv'ya."

"Night Mum, and, thank you."

"Go on you soppy thing, see you soon."

"Yes, you will."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N **

**I had to phone my Mum after I published the last chapter…**

* * *

After breakfast on Monday morning Shelagh sat on the stairs, and having obtained what she hoped was the correct number, nervously called the Foreign Office.

"The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, how may I help?" came an emotionless and over-rehearsed female response.

"Hello," Shelagh squeaked in a small voice, "I hope you can help. My name is Shelagh Turner. I'm trying to trace my daughter. She left the country last year, and I haven't heard from her for, a long time."

"When was the last time you had contact with your daughter?" the voice continued.

"She sent us a postcard from Copenhagen dated 22nd March 1978, since then nothing. She had been in Paris, Barcelona, Lisbon, Roermond and Cologne before that," Shelagh said, counting off the pile of postcards on the mantelpiece one by one.

"Can I take some details about her, so we can try and trace her? Firstly, can I have her name, and date of birth."

"Angela Grace Turner, 31st October 1959."

"Can you describe her please?"

"Of course I can, I'm her mother," Shelagh thought inwardly before continuing aloud, "She's five foot six inches tall, slim build, with long, curly, titian coloured hair, green eyes and freckles. She has three sets of piercings in her ears and a surgery scar on her left ankle. She always wears a thin silver bracelet on her right wrist."

"Was she travelling alone or with others?"

"She was with her, boyfriend, Matthias Aston-Fitzwilliam." Shelagh shuddered at the mention of his name.

"The Matthias Aston-Fitzwilliam?" asked the previously bored and disinterested voice on the other end of the telephone, suddenly sounding far more interested.

"I suppose you could call him that," Shelagh said bitterly, biting her lip to prevent her saying something she may have regretted later.

"And do you have any idea where they were heading?" asked the voice, its disinterested monotony returning.

"Only that they were going round the world. She never gave any indication of exactly where they were going."

"Well, with the information you have given me, we can certainly start a search for her Mrs Turner, can I take your address and telephone number, so that we can contact you should there be any news?"

"Yes of course," Shelagh said, and she recited their address and telephone number.

"Thank you very much, you'll be informed of any news, if, and, when we receive any."

"Thank you," Shelagh replied, putting the receiver down.

Remaining on the stairs, Shelagh sighed and rested her head against the wall. She felt a single tear run down her nose as she stared at the front door, wanting nothing more in the world than for her little girl to skip through it, call "Hello Mummy" and throw her arms around her. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and went into the kitchen to begin the washing up.

As she stood at the kitchen sink she stared out the window towards an obvious bare patch in the flowerbed at the bottom of the small garden, and for the second time that morning, tears began to run down her face. Attempting to comfort herself, she tried to think of what Sister Julienne would say in such a situation. A small smile curled the edges of her mouth as she heard her mother say:

"You have made a start, you've had a conversation."

Over the next ten days Shelagh's heart skipped a beat every time the rattle of the letterbox signalled the arrival of the morning post, so desperate was she for news from the Foreign Office about Angela. Every time, when no such letter arrived, she felt her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. She knew she had to be patient, it would take more than a few days to search the world for someone, but right now patience was one virtue that Shelagh did not possess. As each day passed without any news, a small, cold, dark feeling in the back of her mind began to grow ever bigger, colder and darker, and as much as she tried to shake this feeling away, the more conscious of such a possibility she became.

That Thursday morning, Shelagh had jumped from the breakfast table and rushed to the front door, alerted to the arrival of post by the now poignant rattle of the letterbox. In amongst the usual offerings of bills and the like was an envelope written in a familiar hand, with a Carlisle postmark.

"Timothy!" Shelagh gasped excited, but as she made to open it, she noticed that the sole addressee was Patrick.

"There's a letter for you dear," she said, handing him the small while envelope, the excitement clearly evident in her voice, "I think it's from Timothy!"

"Yes," Patrick said, staring at the envelope, "it is his handwriting."

"Do you want me to read it to you?" Shelagh asked, reaching out to take the letter from Patrick.

"No," Patrick said firmly, "it's my letter; I don't want you to read it."

"But Patrick,"

"No!" barked Patrick with such ferocity that Shelagh jumped backwards several feet. He then folded the unopened letter into his breast pocket and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.

A sense of sheer terror overcame Shelagh and she ran out of the sitting room, through the kitchen and out the back door into the garden. She settled herself on the rickety wooden bench which stood to one side of the small patch of lawn, her back against the arm, her knees drawn up to her chin. Unable to contain any of her emotions, she broke down and wept bitterly, her tears soaking into the knees of her trousers. She had not felt so alone in a long time. Illness had separated her from her husband, anger and resentment from her daughter, but up until this point, distance was the only barrier between her and her son. Was Patrick trying to drive further barriers between her and Timothy? And if so why? She could not understand why he would not let her read his letter; she had had to read his post to him for years, why not this one? And why, come to think of it, was Timothy only writing to his father?

"You alright pet?" a kindly Irish accent called, bringing Shelagh back to the present.

"I'm alright, thank you Barbara," Shelagh replied, wiping her face on her sleeve after finding her handkerchief absent from her pocket, as she saw her neighbour leaning over the garden wall, "I've just had a bad morning."

"Is your Paddy not well?" Barbara asked.

"No," Shelagh replied as she allowed herself a small smile at the thought of how much Patrick hated it when John and Barbara called him Paddy.

"Do you want to come over for a cuppa?"

"It's alright thank you, I daren't leave Patrick and he is in no fit state for visiting, or visitors," Shelagh added anticipating Barbara's next question.

"You don't have to do this alone you know," Barbara added affectionately, "you know where we are if you ever need us, it will be no trouble."

"Thank you Barbara, you're very kind," Shelagh said before Barbara disappeared from the wall.

Shelagh continued to sit curled up on the garden bench. She knew that Barbara meant well, and that when she did accept her help it was much appreciated and kindly given, but she was not the sort of person she felt she could easily confide in about her problems. Barbara and John were both a little younger than Patrick and seemed to have had it all. A long happy marriage, four children, all in good jobs, stable relationships and within a half an hour drive, grandchildren they saw most weekends, and holidays to far-off places twice a year. Shelagh perhaps a little unkindly, always imagined them responding to her problems with over-zealous "there, there's" and well-sugared sympathy, two things which she did not want. So she decided to keep her problems to herself.

Sulking was going to get her nowhere, so she unfurled herself from the bench and went back into the house. She stood at the living room door, trying to think of something to say that would remedy the skirmish they had had over the letter, but before she could say anything Patrick looked at her square in the eye, said, "no," then turned his face away from her.

The silence between Shelagh and Patrick continued throughout the rest of the day, and as they and Jules sat eating dinner that night, they spoke only to Jules, not to each other. The only recognition between the two of them came in the form of cold stares and raised eyebrows.

"Right," Jules said forcefully as Shelagh was about to get up from the table to wash up, "I have no idea what has been going on here today, but something has, and if you don't sort it right now, I'm packing my bag and going to Ben's because I am not living in this unpleasant atmosphere, it's horrible."

"We had a bit of a row this morning," Shelagh said, her cheeks flushing as she said it.

"Shelagh wanted to read my letter," Patrick slurred, "and I said no, I don't want her reading this letter," he finished, removing the letter from his pocket and waving it first under Shelagh's nose mockingly, then towards Jules. She got enough of a glimpse of the envelope to see the Carlisle postmark and nodded in understanding. Checking to see that Shelagh was not looking, Patrick then gave Jules an enormous wink.

"Jules, please, join me in the garden," Patrick said haughtily, completely ignoring his wife.

"Um, coming, Patrick," Jules replied, trying to make out that she was not a party to his intentions.

"You are a bad man Patrick," Jules said teasingly as they settled onto the garden bench.

"Turn round a bit, face away from the window," Patrick said, his shaking hands grasping Jules' shoulders, pulling her around, "so she doesn't see what we are up to."

"Patrick," Jules began.

"Open this," he said, handing her the crumpled envelope from his breast pocket, "and read what it says."

Jules opened her mouth to protest, but the look on Patrick's face, what it said she could not quite comprehend, was it pleading, was it fear, was it commanding, whatever it was, she was powerless to refuse him. She took the envelope, smiled when she noticed that the address was written in blue Biro, tore it open, unfolded the letter and began to read.

"_Dear Dad,_

_Judging by the unfamiliar writing and the relative legibility of your letter, I assume that it was written by this Jules that Mum has told me all about, though do tell her that her writing is only marginally better than yours._"

"Cheeky thing," Patrick said.

"_It saddens me greatly that you are not well and that I cannot be there to support you and Mum. You've both done so much for me, and I know that I could come up with a hundred reasons for not being there when you needed me, and none of them would be good enough to excuse what I have, and have not, done. I can only apologise for neglecting my duties as a son._

_I know now how much seeing your grandchildren means to you, so I have discussed everything long and hard with Lucy. You were right, she did take some persuasion! Women!_"

Jules and Patrick's eyes met, they pulled identical expressions, and then started giggling.

"_However she has agreed that it would be a lovely idea for us to come and visit you and Mum once the baby has arrived. Lucy's due date is 6__th__ September, so all being well, by the middle of next month, you'll be able to meet your second grandchild. We'll find a hotel nearby, rather than staying at your place, it will be quite cosy with four extra people, even if two are very small! Is The Red Lion still open? That was always a nice place. _

_I'll let you know news about the baby as soon as I can, and then once he or she (I hope it's a girl!) arrives we can start making arrangements. _

_See you soon,_

_Love and best wishes to you both,_

_Tim._

_P.S. I assume that the lack of Mum's involvement in the writing of your letter means that she does not know about it, so I will make no mention of any of this correspondence when I next speak to her._

"They're going to come!" Patrick said, a look of glee spreading across his face.

"Yes they are," Jules replied, handing Patrick back his letter, "now, I think you need to go and apologise to someone who is sat inside, she's obviously very upset that you wouldn't let her read this."

"Alright then," Patrick replied, clambering to his feet.

Patrick shuffled back into the sitting room, where Shelagh was curled up on the sofa, her blotchy face bearing witness to the most recent wave of tears. He sat next to her, and tentatively put his arm round her. Shelagh snuggled into him, her arms finding their way around his middle.

"I'm sorry for getting cross with you Shelagh," Patrick said, before planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

"Why did you let Jules read the letter and not me?" Shelagh asked, "And yes I know she has," she added as Patrick had tried to stammer an explanation.

"I can't tell you yet," he replied, "but you will find out soon."

"Patrick," Shelagh began, trying not to cry again.

"Trust us," he replied, holding her so tightly to him that she was struggling to breathe, "we all love you very much."

Confused by his use of plurals, Shelagh shifted her weight slightly so that she could look her husband directly in the eye, trying to read his expression. But Patrick's face remained warm, but unfathomable.

"Everything's going to be alright," he said kindly, "I promise."


	13. Chapter 13

The following evening Shelagh was in the midst of preparing their evening meal when a couple of sharp raps on the front door interrupted her. Given the time, she assumed Jules had forgotten her key, so she wiped her sticky hands down her splattered apron and went to open the door. On seeing who was stood there, her face flushed.

"Hello, Mrs Turner," said a tall, handsome, young man, slightly awkwardly, "I'm Fr Benjamin Wheatley, I was wondering if I could see Jules, I'm sorry for turning up unannounced," he added seeing Shelagh's reaction to his arrival on the doorstep.

"Oh, um," Shelagh began, obviously flustered, "she's not in from work yet, um, do you want to come in and, wait for her?"

"If it is not too much trouble," Fr Benjamin said kindly.

Shelagh shook her head nervously, and stood back to allow him in.

"Would you like a drink?" Shelagh asked as she led him into the sitting room, "Patrick this is Jules' friend Fr Benjamin."

"A cup of tea would be lovely," Fr Benjamin replied, "hello Patrick."

Patrick looked at the floppy-haired stranger, dressed in an open-necked flower-patterned shirt, designer flares and chunky heeled shoes, sat across from him for a moment, before saying.

"You don't look like a priest."

"It's my day off," Fr Benjamin replied casually, "and black and white does get a bit dull after a while."

"Jules is very fond of you, you know," Patrick suddenly piped up.

"I know," Fr Benjamin began,

"Patrick," Shelagh said arriving in the sitting room with a cup of tea and handing it to Fr Benjamin, "don't embarrass him."

"It's alright, um, Shelagh. Is it, can I call you that?" Having watched Shelagh give a slightly perplexed nod he continued, "That is the reason why this visit isn't going be easy, I'm here to say goodbye."

"Where are you going?" Shelagh asked

"Just north of Eastbourne, I've got my own parish now."

"That's not far away," Patrick said, "it's not like you're going to the other side of the world."

Shelagh flinched with a force sufficient enough for Fr Benjamin to notice. Patrick however was blissfully unaware of the affect his words had had.

"I know," Fr Benjamin continued, his voice, as measured as it could be, "but when you've got used to being in walking distance of your best friend any distance seems a long way."

"Yes that's very true," Shelagh remarked with an aching in her heart.

A squeak of bicycle brakes, soon followed by a click of a key in the door, alerted the assembled party to Jules' return home.

"Hello!" Jules called kicking off her boots, whistling something she had heard on the radio that lunchtime as she did so.

"Hi Jules," Fr Benjamin called.

The whistling stopped and the three of them could not help grinning at each other as Jules crept round the sitting room door.

"What are you doing here?" Jules demanded, "hey, stop it," she added as Fr Benjamin started to giggle.

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards," Fr Benjamin said, surveying Jules' tangled hair, grimy face, the ripped elbows of her blue-and-white-checked shirt and her bell-bottoms which were now almost half original material, half patches.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Um," Fr Benjamin began, searching for words. As he struggled, Shelagh and Patrick looked at each other, then got up from their chairs and moved into the kitchen.

"I've come to say goodbye Jules," Fr Benjamin continued sombrely, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh!" Jules exclaimed with an air of confusion, "I thought you weren't moving until the first weekend in September."

"Tomorrow is the first weekend in September," Fr Benjamin replied.

"So it is."

"I was thinking," Fr Benjamin continued, a shyness creeping into his usual confident manner, "shall we find a, pretty spot, and have a drink? Dinner too perhaps. Just us, and you can have one last spin on Tigger."

"You've named your motorbike Tigger?" Jules said, unable to stop herself laughing. "As long as there are no nuns within a fifty mile radius that would be lovely, though, since you find my current appearance so off-putting, I will go make myself look presentable."

Jules ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. When Fr Benjamin heard the shower begin to run he went to the kitchen hatch and, leaning through it, said.

"We'll be out your way in a minute Shelagh."

"Oh," Shelagh replied, "do you not want to stay for dinner? I could make this stretch to four portions."

"That's very kind," he replied, "but we are going to go out."

"When will you be back?" Shelagh asked far too quickly, the words falling off her tongue before she had realised what she had said.

Slightly perturbed by Shelagh's question, unsure whether she was serious or not, Fr Benjamin said after a moment, "Don't worry, I won't keep her out all night."

Shelagh could not respond verbally, but instead gave Fr Benjamin a suspicious stare. Taking that as a cue to end the discussion, he went and sat back on the sofa to wait for Jules. When Fr Benjamin was out of her eye line, Shelagh screwed her eyes tight shut and put her hand to her forehead.

"Why did I just say that?" she said to Patrick.

"Because you love her," he replied quietly.

Shelagh chose to ignore the comment that Patrick had made and returned to stirring the sauce on the stove.

"Are you ready then?" Jules asked as she skipped into the sitting room moments later, wearing her bottle green dress, high heels and her towel-dried hair up in a high ponytail.

"Let's go," Fr Benjamin said, keen to disappear as fast as possible.

"Bye," Jules said, "oh, have you cooked for me?" she added seeing the three places which Shelagh had set at the table.

Shelagh nodded.

"I'll eat it for lunch tomorrow," Jules said, "and can you send my apologies to Mr Everett, I won't be making rehearsals this evening."

"Yes," Shelagh replied, "have a, wonderful time."

"We will, come on Ben," Jules replied, pulling her friend up from the sofa and leading him out of the house towards the end of the drive to where the old Triumph Tiger was parked.

"You look very nice," Fr Benjamin said once they were outside, in a tone cautiously trying to be complementary without being suggestive.

"Less like I've been dragged through a hedge, you mean?"

"You know I was joking," he said, his eyes downcast.

"Course I do, now, where's this pretty spot you want to take me too?"

"Hop aboard," Fr Benjamin said, climbing onto the front of the motorbike, "and I'll show you."

Two and half hours later, the two of them were sat in the flower-filled garden of a timber-framed, thatched-roofed, Kentish village pub. Gin and tonics and a pair of empty plates sat on the table in front of them. The sun was just beginning to set, the last of its rays painting the sky with hues of warm pinks and oranges.

"That was lovely Benji, thank you," Jules said, gathering up the plates and handing them to the barmaid who was passing their table, "are you alright?" she added, seeing the expression on his face.

"I was, just, thinking," he began quietly, "thinking, what."

"What?"

"What might have been, if circumstances were, different."

"Ben, stop it, that's not fair, on either of us."

"I'm sorry."

"If you hadn't answered your calling, you would have never been in Rome, and we would have never met at all. That was the situation we were supposed to meet in, we must be thankful for what we have. You don't regret it do you?" she asked, sipping her gin.

"No, not really, I know it's what God wants of me and most of the time what I want of me, just sometimes I, I'm going to miss you," he finished with a slight stammer.

"I'm going to miss you too. I'll come and visit, when you're settled, as long as your new housekeeper isn't Mrs Marks, mark two!"

"If she is she'll be swiftly removed," Fr Benjamin said, grinning, "I'd like that, if Shelagh lets you out the house for long enough." He paused and, on seeing Jules' confused expression, added, "She actually asked me what time we'd be back tonight!"

"What!" Jules exclaimed, almost dropping her glass, "when?"

"When you were getting ready, it's alright; I promised that I wouldn't keep you out all night!"

"She probably wanted to know whether or not I would be back in time to go to choir with her."

"Oh, sorry I forgot that choir was on a Friday."

"It's alright; I'd always choose an evening with you over choir practice."

"Oh dear, and I think I upset her more when I said we weren't staying for dinner, oh yes, she asked that too."

"She just means well," Jules sighed, "but I really hope the visit from Tim is going to help."

"Have you persuaded Tim to visit his parents?" Fr Benjamin asked inquisitively.

"Not exactly, I merely persuaded his father to persuade him."

"You sly thing!"

"I'm not sly, I'm just,"

"A manipulative, devious, influential control-freak, who just happens to possess a desire to set the world to rights, and a great capacity to love, I know you too well my dear," he finished as Jules opened her mouth to protest.

"Hmm," Jules mewled, "there's a complement in there somewhere isn't there?"

"Perhaps," Fr Benjamin said, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, "so what are you going to do for your next trick, magic their daughter back?"

"Ben, don't joke," Jules snapped, glaring at him. He sucked his lower lip awkwardly. "They're distraught without her," Jules continued, "the longer she's away the worse they're getting. Well Shelagh is at least, I'm not sure Patrick always remembers he has her. I can help Patrick write a letter to his son asking to see his grandchildren, but as Shelagh told me, nothing I can do, can bring their daughter home."

"Do you wish you could?"

"Everyone wants the world to be perfect Benji, but clearly that can't always happen."

Their eyes met, both were wide and sparkling, speaking of much sought, but forbidden, desires.

"No, I'm sorry, forgive me."

"I couldn't not."

A gust of wind suddenly whipped around the pub's garden. Neither of them had a jacket or cardigan, so both shivered as the wind ruffled through their clothes and hair. Their identical reactions sent them both into fits of giggles.

"Shall we drink up and head back to London," Fr Benjamin suggested, "I think it's going to be a chilly ride home. Thank you for this evening."

"My pleasure, as always."

Shelagh went to choir practice alone that Friday evening. A number of fellow members had asked after Jules, to which she had politely responded, "she is with a friend," but, she realised, not one of those enquired as to how she was. When she led the choir, with her husband and children proudly at her side, she was somebody, she knew everyone, and everyone knew her. Now, who was she? The escort of her younger, and more popular, friend.

Shelagh walked the long way home from the Community Centre that night, trying to shake off the sense of frustration and annoyance the events of the last two days had caused her. Why was Timothy writing to his father, not her? Why did Patrick let Jules read his letter but not her? And why did Jules want to spend the evening with Fr Benjamin and not her?

"Stop it!" she called aloud to the dark street, "stop being so selfish."

The answer to the third question she knew the answer to, and, deep down, knew she had to accept it. But for the other two, despite Patrick's gentle reassurances, she could not find a satisfactory answer.

"Are he and Jules up to something?" she thought.

As she turned into Bermondsey Lane, she tried to think of something, anything, they might be planning, but nothing she thought of did she consider remotely conceivable. By the time she had got home it was pitch black, and all the windows of number 24 were dark and staring. Shelagh turned her key in the door and crept into the gloomy house.

Entering their bedroom, Shelagh saw that Patrick was already fast asleep; one arm draped over onto her half of the bed. She undressed and pulled her summer nightdress over her head. A gentle, but chilly, breeze drifted through the open window, billowing the curtains, and sending a shiver down Shelagh's spine. As she made to close the window, the distinctive chug of an old motorbike pierced the silence of the night. Shelagh watched as the motorbike and its two young riders slowed to a halt a few feet away, their figures illuminated by the orange glow of the streetlamp under which they stood. Leaning a little closer, Shelagh tried to hear what the young couple were saying.

"There, back safe and sound, just like I promised Shelagh."

"Shush, they're probably sleeping."

Shelagh watched them climb off the motorbike, which was then propped up against the streetlamp.

"Thank you Benji for this evening, it's been wonderful."

Shelagh's eyes widened as she watched Jules' hands find their way around Fr Benjamin's neck, and then had to make a real effort not to gasp as she saw the young cleric pull Jules into a tight embrace.

"You're the most wonderful girl I know," he replied, "a best friend and a little sister rolled into one and, I will always love you."

"As a sister?"

"But only because I cannot love you any more than that."

"And you're the kindest, most gentle man I know, and will always love you, as my big brother."

"Oh Jules, what am I going to do without you?"

"You're going to live the life which you are destined to live, and so am I, even…"

Shelagh heard Jules' voice trail off into a wave of muffled sobs.

"…if it is going to be hard, for us both."

"You'll come and visit, won't you?"

"I've already promised I would, now," Jules said breaking the embrace, "go on, please, before I really start crying."

"Goodbye Jules," Fr Benjamin replied, before planting a gentle kiss on Jules' tear-stained cheek.

"See you soon."

Fr Benjamin climbed onto the motorbike and kicked it into life. He turned a circle in the road, steering with one hand, waving with the other, his eyes never leaving Jules. She gave him a final wave and watched the tail light of the Tiger completely disappear into the night, before tip-toeing up the driveway. Shelagh saw Jules' eyes scale the house, so made a quick retreat from the window, only returning to shut it when she was sure that Jules was in the house. As Shelagh snuggled herself under her covers, she was convinced she could hear the sound of sobbing from across the landing.


	14. Chapter 14

September 6th came and went. Shelagh had woken even earlier than usual that Thursday morning, knowing that it was the day when it might happen. Robert, unusually for a first baby, had arrived right on time, and although she knew it was unlikely that her second grandchild would be as prompt, every time the telephone rang that day, she pounced on it with the swiftness of a hungry lioness. But each time her hunger remained unsatisfied.

"This little one is obviously taking after her grandfather," Patrick observed ten days later when they still had not heard from Timothy and Lucy.

"Her grandfather?" Shelagh said.

"It will be a girl, I'm sure of it," Patrick mused, "I've just got a feeling."

"You don't think they've forgotten to tell us?" Shelagh said, a somewhat horror struck look on her face, and edge, to her voice.

"No!" Patrick said firmly, "my son wouldn't do that."

Part of Shelagh felt comforted by the conviction in which Patrick had said that Timothy would not forget to tell them, but another part was deeply hurt by her husband's use of a singular possessive pronoun.

Two days later, just before midnight, the Turners were rudely awakened by the shrill ring of the telephone. Shelagh jumped out of bed and thundered down the stairs.

"Hello, Turner household," she gasped, breathless with excitement.

"Calm down Mum," Timothy's voice responded, "it could have been a double glazing salesman!" His voice trailed off into a fit of boyish giggles.

"Even the most persistent of double glazing salesmen don't phone at ten to twelve at night Timothy," Shelagh replied exasperatedly, "now, come on, don't leave us in suspense any longer."

"Well," he said in a tone verging on pompously, "I am happy to announce that Lucy and I are the proud parents of Jessica Louise Turner, born just before eleven weighing seven pounds thirteen ounces, Mum and baby are fine and she's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"Oh Timothy, I'm so happy for you both, a little girl, oh, a granddaughter. Patrick," she said as her husband joined her on the stairs, "we have a granddaughter, Jessica Louise."

"I told you," Patrick said.

"Will we be able to see her soon?" Shelagh asked her son.

"Um," Timothy began. Shelagh's heart sank. "Let's see how the next little while goes, it wasn't the swiftest of labours, and Lucy will need to rest and things, you know?" Timothy finished.

"Yes, of course," Shelagh replied.

"Can I speak to Dad?" he added.

"Here he is, congratulations to you both," Shelagh said passing the telephone over to Patrick.

"Hello Dad," Timothy said cheerfully, "I've got a little girl!"

"Congratulations, my boy."

"Is Mum within earshot?"

"Uh-hr," Patrick murmured.

"In that case I'll be brief; we'll be at yours by lunchtime on Saturday."

"That sounds lovely," Patrick said as neutrally as he could manage, his heart racing with excitement, his breath catching in his throat.

"We'll see you then," Timothy said, "argh, I've run out of change, I've got to go, bye Dad."

"Goodbye son."

"Good news then?" called a semi-yawning voice from the top of the stairs. Shelagh and Patrick turned round, guilty looks on their faces, as they saw Jules at the top of the stairs in a pair of navy blue shorts and a pale grey t-shirt with caricatures of Roman centurions embroidered onto it, looking as though she had just woken up.

"We have a granddaughter," Shelagh replied, the glee evident in her voice, "Jessica Louise."

"Oh that's lovely," Jules squeaked, "congratulations, I bet you can't wait to meet her," she added, raising an eyebrow suggestively in Patrick's direction, who winked back. "Well, I'll see you both in the morning," Jules added through another yawn and she wandered back into her bedroom.

"Oh Patrick," Shelagh said, snuggling into him, one arm around his back, the other curled across her front, "a baby girl, our granddaughter, oh it's, oh, you know?"

Patrick kissed the top of Shelagh's head before saying, "yes, I do know."

First thing the following morning, just as she had finished getting dressed for work, Jules was interrupted by a gentle tap on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called suspiciously.

Patrick slowly opened the door, quietly shuffled into the room before closing it again behind him. He looked around the room. He could not remember the last time he had set foot in this part of his house. Perhaps, it was when they were redecorating it after Timothy moved out, he could not be sure, but regardless, this room, was certainly no longer Timothy's. It was bright, airy, and relatively tidy. Books covered every available shelf, the desk and the floor, paintings and cloth hangings covered the walls, and the vase on the windowsill which Shelagh had initially filled with sweet peas, was now full of Michaelmas Daisies. There were photographs around the room, some of Jules and her friends amongst impressive Classical ruins, others with people who must be her family, and one, Patrick noticed, of her and Fr Benjamin, both suntanned and carefree, sat on a grey stone wall overlooking a vast, almost tropical-blue, lake.

"Is everything alright Patrick?" Jules asked kindly.

Patrick said nothing for a moment, but listened to the stillness of the house, ensuring that their conversation would not be overheard.

"They're coming," Patrick whispered, "on Saturday."

"Oh brilliant!" Jules exclaimed excitedly, "you two are going to have a lovely time with them."

"But what about you," Patrick asked, taking Jules' hands in his own trembling ones, "it was your idea, you should be there too."

"No Patrick, I shouldn't," Jules replied, wriggling one hand free to gently pat his arm, "I'm part of the Turner household, not the Turner family, and Saturday will be a day for the Turner family, it's not my place to be there. Besides, I have plans for this weekend."

"Surely Fr Benjamin isn't pining after you already?" Patrick said with a grin.

"Even if he is," Jules replied, feeling a warmth spread across her cheeks as she did, "I'm not going to see him, I'm going to see my parents. I haven't seen them for a while and I can hardly tell Timothy to see you if I don't see them, can I?"

"No I suppose not," Patrick agreed, "well I better go down for breakfast," he continued as he opened Jules' bedroom door, "otherwise Shelagh will wonder…"

"Patrick Turner, what are you doing?"

Shelagh was stood half way up the stairs, her arms folded across her chest, a fire in her eyes.

"Talking to Jules," Patrick said innocently.

"In her bedroom?" Shelagh snapped.

"It's my house," Patrick retorted.

"He knocked, and I let him in," Jules called down, arriving at Patrick's side brandishing a hairbrush rather more fiercely than was warranted.

"Could you not have waited until breakfast to tell her?"

Jules and Patrick looked at each other and then both chorused "no!"

Breakfast that morning in the Turner household was a rather silent affair. After responding to their "no!" by skulking off to the kitchen, Shelagh spent the entire meal flashing cold stares at Jules and Patrick, making the pair feel very guilty. They both knew they had upset Shelagh, and both longed to tell her the truth, but knew they had to resist, just for a little longer.

The weather on Saturday morning bore witness to autumn's imminent arrival. The sky was grey, the wind was blowing the first leaf-falls around the street and there were a few spots of rain in the air. Patrick had not told Jules when Timothy, Lucy and the children were arriving, so conscious of the fact she wanted to be out of the house prior to their arrival, she was up, washed and dressed and had a weekend bag packed by 7:30. She crept downstairs into the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee and a plate of toast. Just as she was placing her plate and mug in the sink, Shelagh appeared at the kitchen door, still in her nightdress and slippers.

"You're up early," Shelagh said, and after looking at Jules' turtleneck Aran pullover, patch-free jeans and polished, brown leather boots added, "and you're not going to work." It was a question not a statement.

"No, I'm visiting my family for the weekend," Jules said matter of factually, "haven't seen them in a while, so thought I better go while I had some free time."

"Oh," Shelagh replied, sighing a little.

"You didn't need me to help you out with anything today did you?" Jules asked, slightly more provocatively than she had anticipated.

"No, no," Shelagh lied and, as she did, she thought about the broken bracket which, until the previous evening, had held up the larder's top shelf, and how she had hoped to utilise Jules' greater height and strength to fix it. It would have to remain broken for another few days it seemed.

"Oh good," Jules said brightly, "I wouldn't want to disappoint you now."

Shelagh tried to fathom what Jules' words and tone meant. They were out of character. Were they scathing? Mocking? Provocative? She could not be sure, but she knew that Jules was eloquent enough to determine the connotations of every syllable she uttered.

"Well I hope you have a nice time," Shelagh said plainly.

"I'm sure I will," Jules replied, the almost over-exaggerated brightness remaining in her voice, "I hope your weekend is as enjoyable, now," she said standing up and pulling her rucksack onto her back, "I've got to go, my train leaves Paddington just after nine, and then I'll be at Mum and Dad's with a mug of coffee and a slice of cake within the hour, bye!" she finished grinning, already halfway out the kitchen door.

The front door banged shut behind Jules, making Shelagh jump. She balled her hands into fists, before flexing her fingers out, then tightening them again. Something was not right, she could sense it.

"What is going on in this house?" Shelagh thought to herself as she made a cup of tea to try and sooth the rising tension inside her. "They're definitely up to something. Letters, private conversations, hidden secrets, Jules' infuriating attitude this morning, are they trying to hurt me?"

She stared out the kitchen window at the ever-greying sky and wondered if Jules had taken an anorak with her. A long, mournful sigh left her lips, and a single tear ran down her nose.

"What's going on?" she whispered to the empty room, "because I don't think I understand anything anymore."

"Good morning and how are we?" Patrick's exuberant greeting interrupted Shelagh's thoughts. He was wearing his best trousers and jumper and his hair was neatly combed, though somehow still looked unkempt.

"I'm fine darling," Shelagh replied, getting up from the table and planting a kiss on her husband's cheek, "oh, you've missed a bit," she added after kissing a patch of stubble.

"Well, we'll have to sort that out," Patrick said decisively, "mustn't look shabby today."

"What are you talking about Patrick?" Shelagh asked, tucking his shirt tails into his trousers and straightening the hem of his jumper.

"Do we have flour, and sugar, and plenty of eggs, and jam?"

"I think so Patrick."

"Then I think a cake is in order, can you make one after breakfast please?"

"Patrick?"

"A cake, Shelagh, there is to be cake for tea today."

"Of course Patrick."

"Good, now I fancy a wander in the garden, could I have porridge and honey please?"

"But, it's about to rain."

"Porridge and honey, please."

Patrick was on a mission. The arrival of his family had given him the sense of purpose he had been lacking for so long. He stumbled out into the garden towards the dividing wall between the Turner's and the O'Neil's gardens. He looked over the wall and, just as he had predicted, John was in the garden, pulling the last of his runner beans off their stalks.

"Hullo Paddy!" John called as he saw Patrick, "how'r'ya?"

"I couldn't be better," Patrick replied.

"Ah, grand, grand, grand."

"Have you been to Tesco's yet?"

"No, no, not yet."

"Shelagh's feeling a little unwell today," Patrick continued, "and Jules, our lodger, is away, if I give you these," he handed over a shopping list and a wad of pound notes, "do you think you would get some things for me?"

"Of course, 'twill be no bother."

"Thank you, I apologise for my handwriting, I hope you can read it."

"I'll give it a good go, give it a good go."

"Thank you. I'll come round later to collect them, if that is alright?"

"No bother a'tall."

Patrick re-entered the house with an excited spring in his step and a smile on his face. Shelagh looked at him suspiciously as she handed him his breakfast.

"What are you up to?" Shelagh asked.

"You'll soon see," Patrick replied, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he stirred his porridge.

Just after midday, as Shelagh was sandwiching together the two halves of the cake which Patrick had so firmly requested, there was a knock at the front door.

* * *

**A/N**

**As I submit this chapter, I am wearing a grey t-shirt with Roman centurions on it, yes, I am a total geek!**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**

**Sorry for the slightly longer than usual hiatus between chapter postings. You'd think, having done it six times in less than seven years, that I would now have moving house down to a fine art... If only all my possessions could be carried on a slightly rusty Raleigh!**

* * *

Shelagh began to slowly open the front door but, after glimpsing the four figures that were on the other side, threw it the rest of the way.

"Hello Mum!" Timothy and Lucy chimed in unison.

Shelagh could not respond. Her mouth fell open and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes as she looked from her son, to her daughter-in-law, a curvy brunette with chocolate brown eyes, to her grandson, tall for two, with his father's hair, chin, and nose, and his mother's eyes, to the little, pink-blanket-wrapped bundle in Lucy's arms, her granddaughter.

"What, I mean, why?" Shelagh stuttered when she was over the shock which had rendered her completely speechless.

"We couldn't deny you the pleasure of meeting the newest Turner girl any longer," Timothy replied, looking fondly between this mother, his wife and his daughter.

The tears that had up until this point been gently bubbling to the surface suddenly erupted into a violent cascade. Timothy let go of Robert's hand and wrapped his arms around his mother, his long, strong arms cocooning her.

"You've come," Shelagh sobbed into her son's shoulder.

"Yes, Mum we're here."

"Who is it?" Patrick asked casually as he shuffled into the hallway. When he saw who was stood there he looked at his watch and added, "You're early, you said you would be here at lunchtime," an enormous grin spreading across his face as he said it.

"The traffic wasn't as bad as we had anticipated," Lucy replied, "anyway Dad, it's nearly lunchtime."

"Hang on," Shelagh gasped, staring at Patrick, "you knew about this?"

"Of course I did, I invited them!"

"You…"

"Let's not linger on the doorstep," Patrick said brightly, taking Shelagh by the shoulders and pulling her out the way, "they've had a long journey, let's have a cup of tea and then we can have lunch."

As Timothy, Lucy and the children filed past into the sitting room, Shelagh balled the front of Patrick's jumper into her fists and stood on tip-toe in a vain attempt to look at him in the eye. She did not know what to say to him. Part of her wanted to scream and shout at him for being the most infuriating man in the world, part of her wanted to know how they had ended up in this situation and another part just wanted to tell him how much she loved him. In the end all she managed to say was,

"We haven't got enough of anything for lunch Patrick."

"Yes we do, it's all sorted," Patrick replied, "now, if you'll excuse me." His shaking hands attempted to unfurl Shelagh's fingers from the material of his jumper, and after a few moments of futility, Shelagh relented and let go. Patrick then turned on his heels and walked out of the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"To get lunch."

"Patrick!"

Shelagh stood on the doorstep in her slippers as she watched Patrick turn into the driveway of number 22, enter the O'Neil's house and then re-emerge a few minutes later, staggering under the weight of half a dozen Tesco's carrier bags. Watching him struggle, Shelagh ran back into the house, kicked her slippers off and slid her feet into the first pair of shoes she could find, which turned out not to be a pair of her own. Slipping and sliding up the driveway, she took some of the bags from Patrick and carried them for him. Once they were in the kitchen Shelagh turned to Patrick and said,

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because we didn't want to ruin the surprise."

"We?"

"I can't take all the credit for this," Patrick said knowingly, "now we have some guests to attend to."

Timothy and Lucy had already helped themselves to cups of tea, and when Shelagh and Patrick entered the sitting room they were each handed a cup. Patrick sat in a chair in the corner, whilst Shelagh made a beeline for the empty space on the sofa next to Lucy, so that she could get a closer look at Jessica. Robert had been nearly two months old when she first met him, so it had been a very long time since she had seen a newborn this close, and despite her years of midwifery, she had almost forgotten how small they are. Jessica was perfect. She had her father's eyes, a little button nose and a small amount of downy brown fluff on the top of her head. Just looking at her caused an uncontrollable sense of longing to erupt inside her.

"Can I have a cuddle?" she pleaded to Lucy when it appeared that the offer was not forthcoming.

"Um, yes, of course, Mum," Lucy answered, almost reluctantly, as she gently placed the little pink bundle into Shelagh's outstretched arms.

Cradling Jessica to her, an ear-to-ear grin spread across Shelagh's face as she stared down at her perfect little granddaughter. Emotions surged inside her, rising higher and higher into an almighty crescendo. She had almost forgotten this feeling. The feeling of holding something so small, so vulnerable, so needy, but so precious and so wanted. She felt the warmth of Jessica's little body against hers, the silkiness of her skin against her work-worn hands. She breathed in her scent, that smell only newborn babies have, and the soft, gentle, little noises she made were like music to her ears. For that moment, Shelagh's whole world was wrapped up in that little girl.

"She's perfect," Shelagh said, her voice choked with emotion, "you must be so happy."

"We are," Lucy said, looking at Timothy, "aren't we, darling? We have everything we've dreamt of."

Timothy felt his stomach squirm slightly, and he fiddled with his hands awkwardly, trying to avoid making eye contact with either his wife or his mother. Instead he turned to his son, who was sat on the floor next to him drinking a cup of orange squash and said,

"Robbie, go and say hello to Granddad."

"Hello Robert," Patrick called to the little boy, shifting forward on his chair and holding out his arms towards his grandson.

Robert looked first at Patrick and then at Timothy, before hiding his face in his father's trouser leg, unwilling to make eye contact with anybody. Timothy tried to disentangle his son from his legs, but to no avail, the more Timothy tried, the tighter Robert's little fingers became entwined with the material.

"He's just a bit shy," Timothy said, looking at Patrick, before ruffling his son's mousy hair and saying, "do you want to play catch with Granddad, Robbie?"

Robert looked at his father for a moment and then shouted "Yes!"

"I'll go and get your ball from the car," Timothy said to Robert, finally prising his trouser leg out of the boy's hand, "it's only a sponge one Mum," he added after seeing the concerned look on her face.

Timothy strode out the house towards his brand new, red, Peugeot 505 Estate, which was parked on the street outside and collected Robert's toys, Jessica's Moses basket and the bag Lucy had packed with the rest of Jessica's things in. Patrick had watched Timothy from the window, and as Timothy re-entered the sitting room and handed Patrick the blue sponge ball he said,

"You've not brought the Magnette?"

"No," Timothy replied, a crushing sensation materialised in the pit of his stomach at the thought of how fond his father was of that old car, the memories its heavy steel body frame once held, and the journeys that three generations of Turners had all been on inside it, "I don't have it anymore," he finished.

"Oh!" Patrick replied.

"It, um, blew up, on the A69, just outside Hexham, when I was driving home one night," Timothy replied.

"Could they not fix it?" Patrick asked.

"No Dad it, well it, was beyond repair. It was over twenty years old, and."

"It hadn't been very reliable for a while before that," Lucy added, "journeys in the Peugeot are much more, ah, predictable, than those in the old car."

"I'll take you out for a spin in it later if you like," Timothy said brightly.

Patrick mused over the offer for a moment, but did not respond. He then looked at the ball that was slightly squashed into his left fist, smiled and, holding it in the air, called,

"Robert, do you want to play?"

At the sight of his favourite toy Robert's face lit up. All his previous shyness and inhibitions suddenly disappeared as he ran towards his grandfather. Shelagh, Timothy and Lucy watched Patrick and Robert play together. Neither of them had perfect hand-eye-coordination, so the ball regularly disappeared into the four corners of the room. Robert shrieked with laughter as he watched his parents and his grandfather rush around the room to retrieve the ball, and very soon was intentionally dropping the ball so that he could watch someone else get it.

The noise and excitement generated by the game unsettled the previously contented Jessica, causing her to cry, a high pitched shrill which pierced the room.

"There, there, wee one," Shelagh said, rocking her gently.

"Let me have her," Lucy said, getting up from the sofa with lightening speed.

"Oh it's," Shelagh began, but before she could finish Lucy had taken Jessica from her.

"She needs a feed," Lucy said abruptly.

Shelagh's face fell as she watched Lucy take Jessica out the sitting room and into the hallway, where Timothy had left the baby things, her eyes following every one of their movements and she tried to hold back the tears that she knew were coming. The hand that had, seconds earlier, cradled her granddaughter, found its way onto the scar on her abdomen. Timothy noticed every element of Shelagh's reaction and walked over to her, sat where Lucy had been and, put an arm round her and gently stroked her tiny shoulder with one of his huge hands before saying quietly,

"It still hurts, doesn't it?"

Shelagh nodded, unable to form a verbal response. Timothy kissed Shelagh on the top of her head, a tender gesture so reminiscent of his father. Shelagh patted him on the knee and, getting up from the sofa said,

"I'll go and start lunch, I'm sure that Jessica is not the only one who is hungry."

"I'll help," Patrick said, following her into the kitchen.

The kitchen hatch snapped shut and an uncomfortable feeling spread through Timothy's body. He knew Lucy had never warmed to her in-laws as much as he had warmed to her parents. Simon and Jocelyn Richardson, both from long lines of Cumbrian hill farmers, were kind, good humoured and very hospitable people. As soon as he met them, he felt as though he had known them all his life. They, combined with Lucy's seven elder brothers and sisters, their spouses and children, constituted the biggest, friendliest, and loudest, family he knew. Lucy however, never felt the same about Shelagh and Patrick. He did not know why, Shelagh and Patrick had been no less kind or welcoming to Lucy as Simon and Jocelyn had been to him. To begin with he thought she was just nervous, travelling outside the county boundary for the first time, being in a place bigger than Carlisle, meeting three new people, but her attitude did not change with subsequent meetings. Although she never said anything, Timothy strongly suspected that Lucy did not quite trust his parents. He hoped that she did not dislike them, but at times like this, he could not always be sure.

"What was that for?" Timothy said as Lucy re-entered the room with Jessica in one arm and the bag in the other.

"What was what for?" Lucy asked in a puzzled voice as she sat down on the sofa again. She reached into the bag for a piece of muslin before repositioning Jessica so she could offer her her breast. "That's what you wanted wasn't it?" she cooed at her daughter as she began to feed.

"What did you take her off Mum for?" Timothy asked.

"She was hungry Tim," Lucy replied defensively.

"I'm aware of that," Timothy continued calmly, "but you didn't need be quite so abrupt. She does know what to do when a baby cries."

"Yes, but," Lucy began.

"You really upset her, Luce, she was so happy sat there with Jessica in her arms."

"Yes, I saw," Lucy replied indifferently.

"Oh please, Luce," Timothy pleaded, "try and see things in her eyes. She hadn't seen any of us for months. Every time I've spoken to her since I told her you were pregnant again she has asked after you, wanting to know every little detail of your pregnancy. When I told her that Jessica was born and that you were both alright, the elation in her voice was indescribable. And then we turn up unannounced on the doorstep and she is handed the most precious and most desired thing in the world, only for her to then be snatched away. Remember what Mum gave up so that she could marry Dad and have a family. But then she never carried a child to term. We have everything she desired, she lives the life she dreamt of through us, and the children. Are you surprised she was happy cradling Jessica, or that she couldn't bear to let her go?"

Lucy's rounded cheeks had flushed scarlet. She snuck a quick glance at Timothy, before looking firstly at Robert, who was rolling his ball along the hearthrug, and then down to the baby she was nursing.

"I'm sorry Tim," Lucy said sheepishly, "I'm just, well, protective."

"I'm not the one you should be apologising to," he said, tilting his head towards the closed kitchen hatch, "and I'm not criticising your desire to protect the children, but remember, other people can mother too."

Lucy could not answer, but stared out of the window. The only sounds to be heard were the scuffle of sponge on carpet, Jessica's gentle gurgles between mouthfuls and the whisper of the wind through the bushes outside. She suddenly felt a terrible sense of guilt, both for her actions, and for the privileges she had been granted.


	16. Chapter 16

Shelagh managed to contain her tears just long enough to reach the kitchen and close the hatch so that her guests could not see her. Gripping the edge of the worktop she let her tears roll down her nose and splash onto the polished surface.

"What have I done wrong?" Shelagh thought, "I was just holding her, I wouldn't, I couldn't hurt her. Does Lucy think I can't look after her?"

A pair of patterned-jumper-clad arms found their way around her middle and a clean-shaved chin rested itself just above her collarbone. For a moment she did not move, but continued to gently sob. As much as she appreciated this tender, loving gesture from her husband, it was her granddaughter's touch, not his, which she craved so desperately at this moment. As he stood holding his wife, Patrick was fully aware of her innermost desires, and how he craved the ability to satisfy them. Shelagh broke their silence.

"Did I do something wrong Patrick?"

"No," Patrick said quietly in her ear, "you didn't."

"Then, why?" Shelagh stammered.

Patrick let go of Shelagh, pulled her round so that she was facing him, and wrapped his arms around her again. This time Shelagh reciprocated, drawing him closer to her, feeling the warmth of his body and the slight tickle of his jumper against her skin. She was in a safe place, nothing could hurt her here.

"Lucy's just a mother protecting her baby," Patrick said, "that's all."

"But, she doesn't need to protect her from me, I know what to do, I've." She paused, searching for the right word, her first thought, "Had," did not seem quite appropriate, "raised a baby," she finished.

"And when you heard her cry you ran to her, at any hour of the day or night, you were there, at her side, protecting her, looking after her, loving her. Lucy is the same, just with an enormous dose of hormones thrown into the situation. She didn't mean to hurt you, Shelagh, my darling," he said, kissing her lips, "she probably couldn't help it."

"She doesn't hate me, does she?"

"No, she doesn't," Patrick said, kissing her nose before letting her go, "no more than I do, now, let's make lunch; my stomach is making funny noises!"

A few minutes later, Shelagh open the kitchen hatch and called "Lunch is ready."

Timothy, Lucy and Robert wandered into the kitchen and took their places at the table, which was laden with cold meats, cheeses, pastries, pickles, dips, crisps, salads and bread, with bottles of beer, fruit cordial and lemonade to wash it all down. As they entered Shelagh had looked at Lucy with a questioning look on her face, to which Lucy replied,

"She's in her Moses basket, fast asleep."

Reassured, Shelagh settled down to her lunch.

Throughout the meal, Timothy had been trying to subtly drop hints to Lucy to apologise to Shelagh for her earlier actions, but whether his hints were too subtle, or Lucy was just choosing to ignore them, he could not be certain. Regardless, no apology had been uttered as they all retired again to the sitting room well fed and watered.

"That was lovely Mum," Timothy said patting his stomach.

"Well your father arranged it all," Shelagh replied glancing over at Patrick, half smiling.

"Well, in that case, thanks Dad."

Jessica was sleeping soundly in her Moses basket as she had done all the way through lunch. Shelagh kept shifting her weight on her chair, trying to see over the side of the basket. Timothy tried to catch Lucy's eye, but she resisted his attempts. Trying not to show his irritation with Lucy, Timothy stood up and said,

"Dad, how do you fancy a spin in the new car? A drive round Poplar, just like we used to?"

"Have you got a new car Tim?" Patrick slurred.

"Um, yes Dad, I told you," Timothy paused, looking at Shelagh for reassurance. She looked at him mournfully, before diverting her gaze towards her lap, "earlier," he finished.

"Oh, did, you?" Patrick asked, his face, contorted in concentration, trying to recall what his son had said.

"Yes Dad," Timothy said, moving to hold his father's hand in one of his, whilst wiping his eyes with the other, "come on, let's go for a drive, come on Robbie let's go in the car."

Patrick, Timothy and Robert left the sitting room and headed outside onto the drive. Shelagh and Lucy sat in silence until they heard the car speed off up the road, when Lucy said,

"I hadn't realised how bad Dad had got, he's really deteriorated since Christmas."

"Unfortunately, Parkinson's sufferers do not get better, they only get worse," Shelagh said philosophically, "but we enjoy life while we can."

"I'm so sorry," Lucy said awkwardly.

"What for?" Shelagh asked.

"For never appreciating what a wonderful person you are. Everything you've been through, you're so brave, and you never stop sharing your love and seeing the good in everything."

"If you cannot love in life, then what can you do?"

"Be a cruel and heartless fiend like I was to you earlier," Lucy replied ashamedly, "I'm sorry I took Jessica away from you like that." She put her arms around Shelagh. "I, I don't really know why I did it," she finished.

"You did it because you're a good mother, who would do anything to protect her child."

"But so are you, you're a better mother than I could ever be."

"But I, never, ga…" Shelagh's voice broke off. Lucy continued,

"Giving birth is just the beginning Mum. Being a mother is so much more, it's the love that you give a child, that unconditional love that knows no boundaries, and it will never be broken, whatever is thrown in its path. You will always be a better mother than me because you loved another's children as your own; that takes a special kind of love. I love which I should have known you'd share with Robert and Jessica too. I'm sorry for doubting your love."

"A love never broken?" Shelagh replied sadly.

"Angela loves you Mum, she may have decided that she doesn't like you all the time, but even if she won't admit it herself, she will always love you, you're her mother. She'll realise it one day."

"I hope so," Shelagh said, trying not to cry, "I just, wish, I, was, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, ask away," Lucy said, intrigued.

"What's it like, telling your husband you're carrying his child?"

It was not a question Lucy was expecting, so she pondered it for a moment, before replying,

"Terrifying, well, it was when I found out I was expecting Robert," she added when she saw Shelagh's face, "I fell pregnant very quickly after I came off the Pill, so it was a bit of a shock. It took me nearly a week to pluck up the courage to tell Tim, but when I did and when I saw his face, it was the most wonderful experience in the world. I didn't really have to say much when I found out I was expecting Jessica. I had terrible morning sickness with her, so after I'd returned from the bathroom for the third time in quick succession one Saturday, and he asked if I was alright, all I had to do was to take his hand and place it on my abdomen and he understood instantly."

"I always hoped I would see that look on Patrick's face, but I never got to tell him, by the time I, well, you know." Shelagh's voice trailed off. Although over sixteen years had passed, memories of that day still touched a raw nerve.

"Yes," Lucy said gravely. Although she knew exactly what Shelagh was referring to, she knew that she would never be able to comprehend the pain her mother-in-law was feeling. She was one of the lucky ones. She had carried two healthy children to term, and she could try to have another, if she wanted to. The thought of being in any other position disturbed her greatly. An awkward silence descended over the room, neither woman really knowing what to say to each other.

As if on cue, Jessica began to whimper. Both Shelagh and Lucy reacted, both made to jump from the sofa to go to her, but Shelagh stopped herself first. Seeing this Lucy said,

"You get her Mum."

"Are you sure?" Shelagh asked.

"Of course," Lucy replied, "she can't possibly be hungry again yet."

Shelagh walked over to the Moses basket and picked up Jessica, rocking her gently as she returned to the sofa. The little girl seemed to be instantly pacified, as if all she wanted was a warm and secure pair of arms to lie in. Another wave of emotions erupted inside Shelagh as she held Jessica, and how she wished that she did not ever have to let her go.

Lucy curled into Shelagh, putting one arm around her, and the other around Jessica, before saying,

"I love you Mum."

"I love you too Lucy."

When Patrick, Timothy and Robert returned from their drive some time later, Timothy was greatly relieved by the sight which greeted them. Shelagh was still holding Jessica, a broad smile etched across her face, and Lucy was curled up on the other end of the sofa, quietly content to watch them enjoying each other's company. He looked at Lucy questioningly, but the look which his wife returned more than reassured him that all was well.

The rest of the afternoon was spent talking, reminiscing, and telling stories. 24 Bermondsey Lane rang with more joy and laughter than it had done for many, many months. By the time they had finished their late tea, consisting of Shelagh's homemade Sandwich cake, and the leftover bread and cheese from lunchtime, no-one could decide who looked the most tired, Robert, or Patrick. The little boy was sat, half-asleep, on his grandfather's knee, the old man, equally sleepy, but contentedly smiling, holding Robert to him.

"Come on Robbie," Timothy said affectionately to his sleepy son, "I think it might be your bedtime," and picking him up from Patrick's knee, added, "say goodnight to Granddad."

"Nigh' nigh'" Robert yawned, waving a tired and limp arm in Patrick's direction. Patrick waved back with an equally tired hand.

"Both of these need to be in bed, this one especially," Timothy said to Shelagh, "he hasn't really had a proper nap today, and I'm surprised he's not grumpier than this. We'll head back to the hotel now, and then come round for breakfast first thing in the morning, before church, if that is alright?"

"Of course it is," Shelagh replied, "do you want to stay for lunch too?"

"I don't think we'll be able to Mum," Timothy said sadly, "I have to be at work early tomorrow, and I don't want to get caught in the traffic, it's a long way."

"Perhaps we could stay long enough for a cup of tea and a biscuit after church," Lucy suggested, her eyes flickering between Timothy and Shelagh.

"Yes, I think so too," Timothy admitted, "if you don't mind?"

"I'm your mother, Timothy, why on earth would I mind?"

"We'll see you tomorrow then, bye Mum, bye Dad," Timothy called as he headed out the front door.

"See ya," Lucy added.

"Bye," Shelagh chirped, waving them off.

She returned to the sitting room to see Patrick fast asleep in his armchair. She did not have the heart to wake him, as much as she wanted to thank him properly for masterminding the day they had had. On reflection, all the strange going's on, the mystery letters and secret conversations between the house's other residents now made complete sense, though whether she could bring herself to completely forgive either of them for the cruel tricks they played remained to be seen. But then she remembered the warmth she felt with Jessica in her arms, little Robert's shrieks of joy when he was playing catch, and the loving words from both her son and her daughter-in-law, and knew that, between them, Patrick and Jules, despite their clandestine methods, had fashioned her a day of perfection, a day which she could not thank them enough for.

After church the next morning, Timothy, Lucy and the children returned for the cup of tea and biscuit they promised they would have before heading home. Shelagh was noticeably sombre, and both Timothy and Lucy were concerned. Shelagh enjoyed one final cuddle with Jessica whilst Timothy and Lucy put the last of the things into the car and strapped Robert into his car seat. When she really could not hold her for any longer, Shelagh placed Jessica into her car seat, kissed her tiny button nose, and tried not to cry as she whispered,

"Goodbye, little one."

Lucy watched Shelagh intently, before saying,

"We're all going to my parent's for Christmas this year; they have a farm above Coniston Water. Do you want to join us? It won't be any trouble, there's plenty of room."

"That sound's lovely, but with no car, and Patrick finding train journeys so difficult these days…" Shelagh began.

"I'll drive down and get you," Timothy said.

"But it's so far."

"Would you like to come to the Lake District for Christmas?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, but."

"Then I'll take you, I'll be here on 23rd December, and I'm sure Simon and Jocelyn will let us all stay as long as we want," Timothy continued.

"That does sound rather wonderful."

"Well, I'll see you then, then," Timothy finished, wrapping first his father, then his mother in a hug. Lucy did the same, before climbing into the front passenger seat next to Timothy. He started the Peugeot's engine, wound down the windows and as he reversed out of the drive shouted "bye," and waved with the hand he was not steering with. Shelagh and Patrick watched as the car sped off up the road until it was out of sight.

"Thank you for this weekend Patrick," Shelagh said as they returned to the sitting room.

"I didn't do very much," Patrick replied, "I just wrote, well, dictated, a letter, and everything else just sort of happened."

"And I'm very glad it did," Shelagh said.

Later that evening, Jules crept back into the house. She deeply regretted her attitude towards Shelagh the previous morning, and had spent most of the Tube journey from Paddington trying to formulate an apology in her head. She poked her head warily around the kitchen door to see Shelagh and Patrick sat at the table, warm drinks in their hands.

"Hello," Jules said nervously.

To her great surprise, Shelagh jumped from the table, skipped towards her and put both arms round her neck and said,

"Thank you."

"You've had a good weekend then?" Jules asked.

"Yes, we have."

"I'm so sorry," Jules blurted out, "for being so devious, and so unkind yesterday, and hiding things from you and,"

"Jules, I'll forgive you," Jules breathed a sigh of relief, "on one condition," Jules breath hitched.

"What?"

"That you fix the broken shelf in the larder tomorrow, it's driving me mad."

"Yes of course Shelagh."


	17. Chapter 17

Late September dragged on into October. The days became shorter, colder and wetter, the prevailing weather taking its toll on all who encountered it. Shelagh, always more susceptible to coughs and colds since her Tuberculosis, spent most of October coughing and spluttering, whilst for Jules, working outside in all weathers soon left their mark on her too.

On the last Wednesday in October Jules returned home soaking wet and covered in mud for the third time in as many days. As she had pedalled through the torrential rain and howling wind, shivering and coughing, thoughts of the warm house, a hot shower, and the delicious smells of Shelagh's cooking had spurred her on. Though as she skidded to a halt on the partially submerged driveway, something told her all was not well. Despite the fact it was almost completely dark, there was not a single light on in the house, and Patrick's evening paper was still visible, half shoved through the letterbox.

Jules put her bicycle into the garden shed before slipping quietly into the dark kitchen through the back door. Flicking the light switch, she threw off her boots and anorak, hanging the latter on the door handle; water and mud cascading off them onto the tiled floor. It was then she noticed the distinct lack of cooking smells in the kitchen. She slid on her wet socks to the fridge, and found that there was nothing pre-made there either. She began to worry.

"Hello!" she called into the darkness.

No reply.

"Patrick, Shelagh," she called, a little louder.

Still there was no reply.

Assuming she was alone, and conscious of the mess she was making on the floor, Jules peeled off her dripping jeans and soggy socks, discarding them on the floor with her boots, then dragged her woollen sweater, shirt and vest over her head in one go, disposing of them in a similar fashion. She then scampered up the stairs to the bathroom.

Jules was on the cusp of reaching the bathroom, when she nearly crashed into Shelagh, who was just leaving Angela's bedroom. She stopped herself abruptly at the sight of Jules, but said nothing. On seeing Shelagh, and being only in her underwear, Jules gave a nervous, embarrassed squeak and, diving into the bathroom, fired the lock across with an unwarranted level of force. She turned the shower on as high as it would go and felt the scalding water cascade over her cold, tired body, watching mud swirl around her ankles. As she began to regain the feeling in her hands and feet, Jules began to consider what seemed to be going on. Where was Patrick? Why did Shelagh not respond when she called? Why was she in Angela's bedroom? Shelagh always had dinner started by now, why not tonight? Whatever the answers to any of these questions may be, Jules decided there and then not to ask, if Shelagh wanted to tell her, she would.

Shelagh was curled up on the sofa when Jules entered the sitting room after she had dried her hair and changed into her pyjamas. She was staring into space, unaware of the fact that Jules had entered the room. The lack of reaction from Shelagh caused Jules to bid a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where she set about dealing with her pile of muddy clothes and mopping up the mess she had made. When she finished, Jules called through the hatch to Shelagh,

"Do you want me to make a start on dinner?"

Shelagh said nothing for a moment. Jules stood at the hatch, waiting, but becoming increasingly concerned.

"I don't want anything," Shelagh said not looking at Jules, "but cook yourself something if you're hungry."

"What about Patrick?"

"He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"With John from next door."

"Why?"

"They decided to go out."

There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in Shelagh's voice. Despite promising herself that she would not ask, Jules could not stop herself saying,

"Is everything alright?"

Shelagh did not answer. Deciding not to press her any further, Jules retreated from the hatch and rummaged in her cupboard for a packet of spaghetti, some herbs and a tin of tomatoes. As the smell of rich, garlicky, tomato sauce began to waft through the house, Shelagh felt her stomach rumble. She had not eaten anything since her argument with Patrick during the middle of the morning and she was hungry. She wandered over to the hatch and said,

"Do you think there'll be enough for two?"

"I'm sure I can make this stretch," Jules replied.

Shelagh said no more until they had almost finished eating their plates of spaghetti,

"Did you learn to make this in Rome?" she asked.

"Yes," Jules replied, "it is Sister Antonia's recipe, she was the Sister in charge of the College house's kitchen, I helped her in exchange for my lodgings during the transport strike. It never tastes quite as good when I make it here though."

"I might have to let you cook more often," Shelagh said, a very small smile flickered briefly across her face, before she added; "I suppose you want to know what's going on, don't you?"

"Yes," Jules replied honestly, "though through concern, not nosiness," she added.

"Twenty years ago today Patrick and I were led into a brightly painted nursery and told that the baby at the far end of the room, on the right hand side, was going to be our daughter. She was only a few hours old, her sixteen year old biological mother had been prevented from keeping her by her parents, so she had to be adopted more or less immediately. Patrick put her in my arms and I held her to me, just like I had held every baby I ever delivered whilst I was a midwife. But this time, I didn't have to let go, because she was ours. Nobody could take her from us. Or so I thought. Today, somewhere in the world, that little girl is celebrating her twentieth birthday, who with, I do not know, all I know is that there were no celebrations here, not even a birthday card arrived this year. As though everyone knew she would not be here."

Jules swallowed hard and stared at her plate. She now knew the reason Shelagh was in Angela's room when she came home. But, why was Patrick out with John rather than supporting Shelagh? Shelagh seemed to have read Jules' mind as she continued to speak.

"Understandably, I was feeling rather down this morning and I was a bit irritable with Patrick. He asked me what the matter was, and I said 'do you not know what date it is?' to which he responded, 'October 31st, but what's so special about that?', 'It's her birthday,' I replied. And then he said, 'who?' It was then I just lost it with him, I know I shouldn't have, but I did. And when he just sat there, without reacting, just sat there, looking confused and emotionless, I just got angrier and angrier. I stormed off upstairs to have a cry. As I lay on our bed, I honestly didn't know what upset me the most, the fact that I couldn't be with my baby on her birthday, Patrick's reaction, or my outburst. Then the doorbell rang. Patrick answered it and I managed to dry my eyes and make it to the top of the stairs in time to see him and John heading out the front door. Neither of them said anything. It was if I wasn't there. So I made myself scarce, until I heard you run up the stairs and, we, um, met, on the landing."

"Yes, sorry about that," Jules said, a warm glow illuminating her cheeks, "I thought I was alone."

Another flicker of a smile briefly flashed across Shelagh's face, "Don't worry about it, now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to bed."

Shelagh rose from the table, and went to leave, but Jules stood up and gave her a hug.

"Thank you," Shelagh said quietly and left the room.

John dropped Patrick home about 7:30 that evening. As he stumbled into the sitting room where Jules was curled up reading a book, he looked around and asked,

"Where's Shelagh?"

"She went to bed about an hour ago," Jules replied nonchalantly, not looking up from her book.

"Is she ill?" Patrick asked.

"Not exactly," Jules drawled, "she was just a little out of sorts, I think."

"Oh, well I've had a very busy, but most enjoyable day, so, I think I will have a bath and an early night too."

Jules could not bring herself to answer Patrick. She seethed slightly inside, and was very glad that Shelagh did not hear what he had just said.

"What a day to forget your daughter," she sighed, not knowing exactly which Turner she felt more sorry for.

Whether Shelagh and Patrick ever formally made up after their row on Angela's birthday, or if the incident was just forgotten, Jules never discovered. The atmosphere in the house had certainly improved by breakfast the next morning, and Angela's name was not mentioned again, at least, not within Jules' earshot.

Throughout November Patrick had a series of appointments with his consultant neurologist at the London. Dr Cleveland, an old-fashioned looking, grey-haired gentleman, stared at Patrick and Shelagh through the fine, wire-rimmed spectacles, which he balanced precariously on the end of his nose, as they updated him on the nature of Patrick's condition. Concerned, he prescribed Patrick a new course of drugs, hoping they would bring about some relief. Shelagh asked if Patrick would be able to travel to Coniston Water for Christmas, to which Dr Cleveland said there would be every possibility. Shelagh interpreted the consultant's euphemism in a heartbeat, but decided not to let on, to either Patrick or Dr Cleveland.

On the last Thursday of November a letter arrived addressed to Shelagh. The franking mark on the crisp white envelope was unusual, and she tried to decipher its slightly rain-smudged green characters. Unable to, she sat on the stairs, tore the envelope apart and took out the heavy-weight piece of paper. It was then she noticed that it was printed on Government writing paper, and her heart skipped several beats. Trying to remain composed, she began to read to herself;

_Dear Mrs. Turner_

_ The Office for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs writes in response to your telephone conversation with a member of our department on 20__th__ August this year, concerning the current whereabouts of your daughter, Miss Angela Grace Turner, (D.O.B 31/10/1959). The Office apologises for the length of time which has elapsed since your initial enquiry but confirms that a thorough investigation has been carried out, involving the co-ordination of intelligence from a number of sources, and now are able to disclose the following information. _

_ Miss Angela Grace Turner returned to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland via Heathrow Airport on a scheduled flight from Buenos Aires, via Miami and Madrid, on 14__th__ November. The companion whom you stated she was travelling with, Mr Matthias Frederick Edmonton Aston-Fitzwilliam, departed Buenos Aires on the same day as Miss Angela Grace Turner, but on a scheduled flight to New York John F. Kennedy Airport,__only returning to the United Kingdom, also via London Heathrow, on 22__nd__ November._

_ Miss Angela Grace Turner has not purchased further travel documents, nor attempted to leave the country via air or sea in the time between 14__th__ November and the date of this letter, so the Office has come to the conclusion that Miss Angela Grace Turner is currently resident within the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. This inferred situation has led to the Office terminating their involvement in this case, and further liability has been transferred to the Office for Home Affairs, where, under the auspices of The Right Honourable William Whitelaw, Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Home Affairs, the case will be continued._

_The Office for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs thanks you for your enquiry and hopes that a satisfactory conclusion is met in due course. _

_Signed on behalf of The Right Honourable Lord Carrington, Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs_.

As she scanned and rescanned the letter Shelagh's eyes had grown wider, her heart raced and tears had began to run down her face. The letter, although cold and emotionless, had told her much, but had left so many questions answered. Her baby was alive, and on home soil. But where was she? Why did she travel back alone? Why did he leave her? And, perhaps most importantly of all, if she flew to London, why did she not come home?

"If only I knew," Shelagh thought, as she folded the letter into her pocket and wiped a tear from her cheek on her sleeve, "but, she's alive, and I must be thankful for that."


	18. Chapter 18

Icy winds and harsh frosts heralded December's arrival and continued to accompany its passing. But despite the cold, there was a warm, glowing excitement in Shelagh's heart. As a child would count down the days to Christmas on their Advent calendar, Shelagh did the same in her diary, ticking each day off, one by one, until, not the 25th as children do, but to the 23rd, the day that Timothy would be arriving to take her and Patrick to the Lake District. The thought of seeing her grandchildren again, became a flickering flame of joy and hope when other lights burned less brightly.

Work on the excavation in the Docklands was halted a week before Christmas, as the weather conditions had rendered parts of the site unsafe, so Jules made the most of her time off, relaxing and enjoying Shelagh and Patrick's company, which was somehow made all the more pleasant by the new lease of life the upcoming trip had brought the pair of them.

"Cumbria is supposed to be beautiful," Jules said to Shelagh one evening as she sat sewing another patch onto her bell-bottoms, "I've never been there before, so you'll have to tell me all about it when you get back."

Shelagh looked up from the little pink cardigan which she was knitting and stared at Jules for a moment. It was then she realised she had not even thought about Jules not being with her and Patrick over the festive period. Biting her bottom lip awkwardly she said,

"Are you going to your parent's for Christmas?"

"No, not this year," Jules began.

"Oh, why?" Shelagh interrupted before stopping herself short.

"My parents are spending Christmas in Switzerland. My brother is working as an English Language teacher in a school near Verbier so they're going to see him and his wife this year."

"Did you not want to go?"

"I couldn't quite afford it this year," Jules sighed, "archaeology, they say, is a beautiful mistress, but she brings a poor dowry. I'm spending Christmas with Ben and his family. I haven't seen his parents or his brother, Aloysius, since his ordination, so it will be nice to see them all." She finished by flashing a questioning look at Shelagh, which she read instantly.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to be alone somewhere," Shelagh said quietly, her mind flashing for a moment in the direction of her daughter.

"No, don't worry," Jules replied, "Judith and Michael will make sure I'm well looked after."

By the evening of December 21st Shelagh had packed her and Patrick's suitcases and had them ready and waiting in the hallway, so eager was her anticipation of Timothy's arrival. Over and over again she had debated, considered and counted how many jumpers, pairs of thick socks, scarves and smart outfits they would possibly need for their trip. She had lovingly wrapped the presents she had made, first in coloured paper, then within the layers of clothes in the cases, just to make sure that nothing would happen to them. Patrick and Jules had sat watching her, both equally as bemused as the other, but unable to not share in Shelagh's infectious joy.

After returning from church on the morning of the 23rd, Shelagh used every available opportunity to steal a glance out of the window, searching through the gloominess of the day for Timothy's bright red car approaching the house. With every hour that ticked by, the more Shelagh's feeling of anticipation turned into nerves.

"Where is he?" she thought.

Just after 4:30, a pair of headlights, preceding a bright red Peugeot, crawled their way through the mist, and up onto the Turner's drive. Shelagh skipped from the window and opened the front door.

"Timothy," Shelagh gasped as she put her arms round her son, "I wondered where you'd got to."

"Sorry," Timothy yawned as he followed his mother into the house, "the roads and the weather have been terrible, it was just accident, after accident, it's taken over eleven hours to get down here." He yawned again, only making a half-hearted attempt to stifle it. "Any chance of some tea and a sandwich? Hello Dad."

"Of course darling."

Timothy slumped into a chair, kicked his shoes off and tucked his feet up underneath him. He had to make a real effort not to drift off to sleep. Watching him, Patrick said,

"You better tell your mother gently that we're not going anywhere tonight."

Timothy pulled a confused expression and said nothing. Although from the other side of the room, Patrick could not make out every detail of Timothy's expression, the heatedness of the silence in the room compelled him to continue,

"She's had our bags ready to go since Friday."

"Oh," Timothy yawned, "alright then."

The two men sat in silence. Timothy had originally decided to do the trip there and back again in one day, but as the journey down had taken almost twice as long as it should have done, he knew it would be foolish to try and travel back tonight.

"Mum," he began as Shelagh entered the room carrying a mug of tea and a pile of cheese and chutney sandwiches, "I'm far too tired, what with the journey I've had down, to take you back tonight, so I was thinking if we left really early tomorrow, we'd get to Simon and Jocelyn's for lunch. You understand?"

The glow faded from Shelagh's face and her eyes turned downcast, but, yes, she understood.

"I suppose that's sensible," Shelagh said, "though, we don't have your old room spare anymore, I don't know where you are going to sleep? The sofa?"

"Can I not sleep in Angela's room?"

A surge of uncontrolled rage coursed through Shelagh's body at Timothy's suggestion. She glared at him, her hands balled into tight fists, biting her bottom lip.

"No," she snapped.

"Why?" Timothy began.

"Just no, Tim," Shelagh replied, her harsh tone melting into one of pleading, "please Tim, not yet."

Timothy did not understand his mother's words or actions, but he was acutely aware that his suggestion had upset her, so said rather sheepishly,

"I'll sleep down here on the sofa then," before returning to his plate of sandwiches.

At that moment, Jules walked nonchalantly into the sitting room, and said,

"Has anyone seen my Aran turtleneck? Oh, hello," she added as she spotted Timothy.

"Jules this is our son Timothy," Shelagh said, "Timothy, meet Jules."

"Ah, the mystery letter writer," Timothy said, standing up to shake Jules' hand, "lovely to meet you finally."

"Likewise," Jules replied, her brown eyes meeting Timothy's blue. "Um, yes," Jules continued, sliding her hand out of Timothy's and diverting her attention towards Shelagh, "have you seen my jumper?"

"I think it's in the airing cupboard," Shelagh replied, "possibly buried under the towels I put in there yesterday."

"I'll have another look," Jules replied sheepishly before making a hasty, but noticeably awkward retreat. Shelagh watched her go, and smiled. She decided to say nothing, it would be cruel to, she thought.

After eventually finding her best jumper and folding it into her bag ready to take to Ben's, Jules sat on her bed with her head in her hands, thinking about her rather awkward first meeting with Timothy.

"Why do I never learn?" she thought to herself, "why is it always the same?"

Timothy excused himself from his parent's company to use the bathroom. Before heading downstairs again, a slight inkling at the back of his mind drew his attention to the door of his sister's bedroom. He crept across the landing towards it, and as he drew nearer, his hand instinctively reached out for the handle. Remembering that it squeaked slightly, he applied only the gentlest force onto it, slowly, slowly, pressing it down. When he heard the handle click out of place, he carefully pushed the door open and peered around the door.

"Oh no!" he gasped as he looked around at his sister's room, blanketed in dust, the bed only half made, doors and drawers left open in casual abandonment. Had it not been for the layer of dust, he would have thought his sister had only left the day before.

Every one of his instincts told him to flee, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to leave. He had not even imagined this possibility. He now understood his mother's aversion to him sleeping in here. He stole one final glance around the room and turned to leave. He stopped short on the landing as he closed it behind him.

Jules was just leaving her bedroom and both stood stock still, staring at each other. Timothy's face was riddled with guilt, Jules' with awkwardness. Timothy broke the silence between them,

"Do you know about this?" he whispered, tilting his head towards his sister's door.

"I know nothing about that room," Jules whispered back, her gaze sliding down the banister to ensure that they were not overheard, "what is it?"

"Look," Timothy said, beckoning to her, and opening the door gently again.

Jules' conscience told her "no," her curiosity said "go on." Her curiosity, ashamedly, won. She looked past Timothy into Angela's bedroom, and saw that it must have been in the same state that Angela had left it in.

"Oh no," Jules said, looking at Timothy, "I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"You weren't to know," Timothy replied gently, "I'm their son, if they couldn't tell me, then they couldn't tell anybody. I…"

Timothy's voice choked and he swallowed hard. Jules patted his arm.

"I'm so glad that they are coming to us for Christmas," Timothy continued once he had composed himself.

"Yes, me too," Jules agreed, "I think they will enjoy themselves."

"I hope so," Timothy mused, "it will be a bit noisier than one of our usual Christmases, Lucy is one of eight and everyone is going to the farm this year, but I hope they won't find it too overwhelming."

"Honestly, Timothy, I think the idea of spending Christmas with their son and their grandchildren is so exciting for them that they are unable to even consider that the experience will be anything less than positive."

"Have they really been that excited?" Timothy asked, a smile creeping over his face at the thought.

"Yes," Jules replied, grinning as she did so, "the two of them have been buzzing for days."

"I hope we don't disappoint them."

"You're their family, you won't disappoint them."

"I've not been the most attentive of family members though have I?"

"That wasn't your fault though, sometimes life takes us far from home and the ones we love, but it always finds a way back."

"Especially if there's a little help given along the way."

Timothy paused and looked at Jules with a warmth and kindness in his eyes. Jules felt her stomach lurch.

"I just want to say thank you," Timothy continued.

"For what?" Jules replied, a perplexed look on her face.

"For helping Dad to write that letter, for looking after Mum, and for just being here for them when I can't be. They're very fond of you, you know."

"Oh," Jules said in a small voice, her cheeks turning red, and not daring to look at Timothy.

Timothy said no more on the subject, aware not only that he was embarrassing Jules but also that his parent's had not divulged their fondness of the girl to her personally as they had done to him. At that moment, they heard voices and movement from the sitting room below them. Timothy gently reclosed Angela's bedroom door and as he stood at the top of the stairs said,

"Better go back before they miss me, don't tell Mum about this, will you?" finishing the sentence in a barely audible whisper.

"I won't, don't worry."

"Thanks," Timothy replied, before skipping down the stairs and re-entering the sitting room.

Jules re-entered her bedroom, musing on the secrets she and Timothy had uncovered. Secrets that Shelagh had been keeping from everyone, it seemed.

"This time," she thought, "I've found out too much. Hopefully a few Christmas drinks will be sufficient to help me to forget."


	19. Chapter 19

Several hours before dawn the next morning Timothy, Patrick and Shelagh piled into the red Peugeot and sped off into the darkness. Patrick fell asleep within a few miles of leaving the house but Shelagh was far too excited to think of sleep. As dawn began to break over the Midlands, Shelagh's eyes never left the scenery. The closer they got to Cumbria, the snowier the scene, and the wider the smile on Shelagh's face, became.

Just after midday, the three Turner's arrived at the gates of the Appleby Farm. Timothy opened the main gate and then drove the car past a series of barns, stores and stables up to Simon and Jocelyn's stone-walled, slate-roofed farmhouse. Smoke rose from the chimneys, the sash windows revealed decorations and lights in every room and a holly wreath hung from the front door. The icicle-covered, timber-framed, porch was full of discarded wellington boots, gardening tools and head collars, chickens and ducks wandered round the yard and a Border collie wandered from its kennel to greet them.

"Hello Bob," Timothy said to the collie, rubbing the dog's ears.

At that moment, Simon and Jocelyn appeared at the front door. Although both in their mid-seventies, they could both easily pass for fifteen years younger than that. Simon, tall, strong and rugged, his silvery hair set in a comb-over to disguise the increasing bald patch, in corduroy trousers turtleneck and tweed jacket, Jocelyn, small, plump and motherly, in a long woollen skirt, blouse and flowery apron wandered down the path to greet their visitors.

"Shelagh," Jocelyn said as she wrapped Shelagh in a tight bear hug, "and Patrick too," she continued, showering the same gesture on Patrick, "how lovely to see you both."

Simon, was a little more reserved than his bubbly wife, shook Shelagh and Patrick's hands before saying, "welcome to Appleby Farm, and Merry Christmas."

The temperature outside was below freezing and, noticing their guests shiver's, Simon and Jocelyn led them into the house, down a narrow passageway and into the biggest kitchen either of them had ever seen. Shelagh let out an audible gasp as they entered. "Mrs B. could have had a field day in here," she thought.

The room ran the entire length of the house, an Aga twice the size of anything she had ever seen before stood at one end of the room, with a coal fire, framed by a pair of rocking chairs and a hearth rug, mirroring it. Oak cupboards and work surfaces lined every wall, and an antique Welsh dresser stood in one corner. Several doors led off the kitchen, one out into the garden, the others off into store rooms and walk-in larders. Running the length of the vast room was a series of wooden tables, pushed together to make a continuous whole. Shelagh counted at least thirty mismatched chairs around it. The whole room smelt invitingly of home cooking. Having barely eaten since the early hours of the morning, Patrick and Shelagh salivated in anticipation.

"Lucy was right," Shelagh said, "everyone really is round for Christmas this year."

"Indeed they are," Jocelyn chirped brightly, "eight sets of children and spouses, fourteen grandchildren and, last but certainly not least, you two, and we are honoured that you could join us this year."

"Thank you," Shelagh replied, her cheeks flushing and not just as the result of being in the warm kitchen, "how on earth do you fit everybody in?"

"These walls are fairly stretchy," Jocelyn said patting the wall behind her, "we always can find room for visitors!"

"Have we got time for a quick pint?" Simon asked his wife, "The boys are already in the Cavalier," he added, looking at Patrick.

"If it is a, quick, pint," Jocelyn replied, knowing full well that this scenario would be unlikely.

"Coming Patrick?"

"Yes please," Patrick said getting to his feet.

"I'll call Tim," Simon said, and the two old men left the room with a spring in their step.

When the men had left Jocelyn made Shelagh a cup of tea and they sat at the enormous table. For a house with over thirty residents, Shelagh was stunned at the quiet.

"Where is everybody?" she asked.

"Well the boys are at the pub at the end of the road, the little ones are having a nap before lunch, and the others will be out on the farm somewhere, probably out on the ponies. Our sideline business," she added seeing Shelagh's face, "we take tourists out pony trekking during the summer. Most of them are hardy things and live on the hills with the sheep most of the year, so they're little trouble, plus horseback is the only way to get to some parts of the farm, even with our modern farm vehicles."

"You both still ride?" Shelagh said in amazement.

"Oh yes," Jocelyn said proudly, "are you a rider by any chance?"

"No" Shelagh replied, "I've never been on a horse in my life."

"Oh," Jocelyn said, in a manner suggesting that this revelation was unheard of. A silence descended.

"Can I do anything to help?" Shelagh said after a moment.

"Yes, could you go into that larder and get some bread and cut it into thick slices," Jocelyn replied as she pointed at a door at the far end of the room, "we have mutton stew for lunch, if that is alright?"

"That sounds wonderful," Shelagh replied, getting up from the table and heading towards the larder.

"Oh my," she said as she walked in. The larder was almost as big as her own kitchen back at home. The shelves, floor to ceiling were stacked high with vegetables, homemade jams, chutneys and bottled fruit, demijohns of gently fermenting liquid and, on one shelf about half way up, two enormous loaves of homemade bread, each the length of Shelagh's arm, and eight inches wide, covered in a series of tea towels. With some difficulty she removed one from the shelf and manoeuvred it out of the door and onto the nearest spot of work surface.

"How much of this do we need?" Shelagh asked.

"All of it will be enough to start with," Jocelyn replied, tasting the stew as she did so, "we'll start the second one if needed."

Shelagh felt her jaw drop, but then remembered that it was for thirty or so people.

"I'll just call the pub," Jocelyn said, picking up the telephone, "lunch is ready," she said when she received a reply, then replaced the receiver.

"Who did you speak to?" Shelagh asked.

"Oh Roy, the barman, he knows everyone round here well enough to know whose wife or mother calls when its mealtime. They'll be back soon. Can you ring the bell for everyone else?"

"The bell?"

"Outside the front door, give it a couple of good clangs and everyone will come running!"

Shelagh did so and, sure enough, a fifteen or so people descended on the kitchen within minutes of the bell clanging.

"Wash your hands and take off your muddy clothes otherwise there will be no lunch!" Jocelyn called to the children.

"Yes Grandma!" the children chorused before running off in various directions in search of sinks. Several of the older children could reach the large Belfast sink at the opposite end of the room, and a skirmish ensued, water flying everywhere,

"Karen, Martha, Richard, stop that right now, Nicolas that's a tea towel not a hand towel, Brendan don't you dare leave that muddy jumper on the floor, Daniel, help Caitlin take her boots off please, there's to be no muddy footprints on my floors."

Shelagh watched in admiration as Jocelyn controlled the rabble of grandchildren with consummate ease. Clearly grandma's word was law in this house. At that moment Lucy arrived, carrying Jessica.

"Hello Mum, Happy Christmas," Lucy said, kissing Shelagh on the cheek.

"Hello darling," Shelagh replied, "and hello Jessica," she cooed at her granddaughter, "goodness she's grown, hasn't she?"

"Just a bit, she's turning into a right chubby thing," Lucy said handing Jessica to Shelagh. Shelagh's grin stretched from ear to ear.

Ten minutes later the entire family, apart from Jessica who was asleep in her Moses basket at the other end of the room, were sat around the enormous kitchen table. As they began to eat, Timothy said to his parents,

"Do you know everybody?"

"Refresh our memory Tim," Shelagh replied.

"Ok, Lucy's siblings are," he pointed them out one by one "Ralph, who is married to Helen, and their children Karen and Matthew, Jerry, his wife Alison and their son Nicholas, Monica, her husband Chris and their son Richard and twin daughters Daisy and Poppy, James, his wife Pat and their girls Martha and Rebecca, Bev, her husband David and their son Daniel, Frank, his wife Rosie and their children Brendan and Alice and Kath, her husband Don and their daughter Caitlin."

"And who are you and who are you married too?" Jerry piped up.

"Oh shush," Timothy replied, "and everybody, in case you've forgotten, this is my Mum and Dad, Shelagh and Patrick."

"We will be testing you later," Ralph said to Shelagh and Patrick.

"And you know the punishment for getting a name wrong don't you?" Frank replied.

"No," Shelagh said awkwardly.

"Frank, don't be cruel," Monica scolded.

"I know Uncle Frank," Matthew, a boy of ten said.

"So do I," Nicholas, also ten, continued.

"You can't do that Uncle Frank," Karen, the eldest of the grandchildren at fourteen, gasped.

"Not to guests on their first day anyway," James added.

"What happens to people if they get someone's name wrong at Appleby Farm?" Frank called to the children, ignoring attempts to admonish him.

"They get thrown on the muck heap!" all the children shouted.

The whole table erupted into laughter, even those who had reprimanded Frank.

"Well, I had better be careful then hadn't I" Shelagh replied through her giggles, "I don't want to end up in the muck heap.

"What do we call you?" Martha, a pretty girl of nine asked, "because, you're only Robbie and Jessie's Grandma and Granddad, so it would be a bit weird if everyone called you Grandma and Granddad, and our Grandma and Granddad might get confused."

Shelagh and Patrick looked at each other, neither was very sure how best to answer this question.

"Can we call you Uncle Patrick and Auntie Shelagh?" twelve year old Richard asked, "that way there would be no confusion."

"Is it alright for the children to call you that?" Jocelyn asked.

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged another set of glances, before both saying "Yes."

The snow began to fall again that afternoon and the wind began to whip it up into swirling blizzard. All the children protested when they were told they were not allowed to play outside in it, but one sentence from Jocelyn was enough to dispel the ruckus and they all found something to do indoors. Those who were wanting to attend midnight Mass had retired to their rooms for a nap, but tired as she was, Shelagh decided not to have a sleep, but sat by the fire in the enormous sitting room, watching the children play. Although they could not be outside in the snow where they wanted to be, they were happy and excited, discussing their game and what they wanted for Christmas. Many of their wishes were widely extravagant, but the joyful, expectant atmosphere warmed Shelagh's heart.

All the children bar the two eldest, Karen and Richard, were in bed by 7:30, excitedly anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas. By 11:30, the snow had stopped, but another four inches or so had settled on the six or so that was already on the ground, so the church goers in the family pulled on pairs of wellington boots, and as many layers as they could fit under their coats and, fortified by a dram of whisky, walked the mile journey from Appleby Farm to St Michaels church. When they returned just before 2:00, they found that those who had stayed behind had placed everyone's Christmas presents around the tree, so vast was the number that a good third of the floor was covered in brightly coloured packages. The house smelt of mulled wine, mince pies and sausage rolls, and, as they walked into the kitchen, David, Rosie and Alison had the hot treats ready and waiting for them.

"Merry Christmas everybody," Simon said, raising his mug of mulled wine.

"Merry Christmas," the family chorused.

Christmas dinner the following afternoon was one of the happiest meals of either Shelagh or Patrick's life. One of the farm's pigs had been fattened for the occasion and Jocelyn had prepared every trimming imaginable. The enormous tables heaved under the weight of the plates, terrines and sauce boats. Asides from Timothy and Lucy's wedding, Shelagh and Patrick had hardly spent any time with Lucy's family before, but by the end of Christmas lunch they both felt as though they had been with them forever. Lucy's siblings and their spouses were just as kind as Timothy had described them and the children, Shelagh especially thought, were all wonderful. The more they called them "Uncle Patrick and Auntie Shelagh," the more they felt accepted into the family. But despite her joy, niggling at the back of Shelagh mind, was the sense that something, or more accurately, someone, was missing.

"Where are you Angela?" she thought sadly that night, as she sat with her mug of hot chocolate staring out the sitting room window, watching the latest fall of snow cascade from the sky, "you would have loved it here today. Wherever you are, I love you, and I want you to come home. I miss you."

She sniffed as a tear began to run down her nose at the precise moment that Jocelyn decided to poke her head around the sitting room door.

"Are you alright Shelagh," Jocelyn asked.

"Yes," Shelagh lied as convincingly as she could, but knew that Jocelyn was not fooled.

"Tell me about it tomorrow," Jocelyn said kindly, "goodnight," and with that, she left the room.


	20. Chapter 20

The following morning was bright, crisp and cold, the sun shone and there was not a cloud in the cornflower blue sky. After a hearty breakfast of fresh eggs, homemade sausages and bacon, mushrooms and toast, the vast majority of the family disappeared out into the farmyard, the air of excitement amongst the group was almost tangible.

"Where's everyone gone?" Shelagh asked.

"On Boxing Day, anyone who is at the farm and wishes to, always go out for a ride," Lucy explained, "when we were younger we all used to join the hunt, but when the children were old enough to ride we decided that it would be a nicer tradition to ride out as a family.

"Oh, I see," Shelagh said, with an intrigued tone to her voice.

"Are you tempted Shelagh?" Jocelyn asked.

"Um," Shelagh began, "I'm not sure."

"Come on Auntie Shelagh," Rebecca said, "I'm going, and I'm only five!"

Shelagh noticed several pairs of eyes look on expectantly, including little Rebecca's.

"Alright," she said nervously, "I'll come."

"Good show," Jocelyn said grinning, "let's find you a hat and a horse."

Jocelyn led Shelagh across the yard to the stable block, going via the tack room to collect a spare riding hat and two sets of tack. As they wandered past numerous stable doors, friendly faces in a variety of colours, bay, chestnut and white, dapple grey and an attractive skewbald, watched their movements. They stopped about two-thirds of the way down the stable block.

"Morning Jasper," Jocelyn said affectionately to a chunky black pony of about 14 hands with a long thick mane and tail and full feathers, stroking his nose, "you'll be alright on him," she continued, turning to Shelagh, "he's as safe to sit on as a sofa."

Jocelyn led Jasper out of his stable and, draping the saddle and bridle she was carrying over the stable door, took the tack Shelagh was holding and put it on the pony.

"If you just hold him for a minute," Jocelyn said, handing Jasper's reins to a now nervous Shelagh, "I'll tack up Mulligan and then I'll get you on him."

"Uh, ok," Shelagh said, her gaze following Jocelyn as she disappeared around the corner, then returning to Jasper. The pony turned his pretty, kind head towards Shelagh and rubbed his nose on her shoulder.

"Will you promise to look after me?" Shelagh said. Jasper's dark eyes stared back at her. "That was a rather daft thing to say," she thought. Jasper snorted, and she smiled, wondering which of her previous statements he was affirming.

"Right, let's get you on," Jocelyn said when she returned. Slightly awkwardly, she helped Shelagh into the saddle and adjusted her stirrups.

"Comfy?" Jocelyn asked.

Shelagh nodded in response, nervously twisting a strand of Jasper's mane round her fingers.

"Grand," Jocelyn replied, before vaulting onto her own grey cob with surprising agility for a woman of her age.

"He'll just follow Mulligan here, he won't run off or do anything silly," Jocelyn said reassuringly as they began to walk across the yard.

"Good," Shelagh said under her breath.

The assembled riders, everyone bar the four youngest children, Patrick and Lucy, were waiting by the house for Shelagh and Jocelyn.

"Off we go," Simon called from the back of a magnificent bay hunter, and everyone followed him out of the farm gate.

"Since when have you ridden?" Shelagh called to Timothy as he rode past her on an elegant piebald, noticing then that he was sporting a pair of breeches, long leather boots and a velvet-covered cap.

"Since I went on my first Boxing Day ride," Timothy replied, "it's become somewhat of a hobby, hasn't it Todd?" he finished, patting his mount's patterned neck.

The ride wound its way through the snowy tracks which criss-crossed the Richardson's land. They stayed on the lower slopes, where the snow was less deep, but even so, had to remain at a pace no faster than a walk for fear of the horses losing their footing. They stopped on the shore of Coniston Water, the sunshine sparkling across the icy expanse. Gentle Jasper was slow and steady, and Shelagh's nerves soon disappeared, as she was carried through the beautiful countryside on her trusty new friend.

Jocelyn rode beside her, watching intently to make sure she was alright, whilst keeping half an eye on the rest of the family. She thought about the incident which occurred between them the previous evening. She hated the thought of anyone being upset at Christmas time, so slowed Mulligan right down so that they lagged slightly behind the rest of the group.

"Are you sure you were alright last night?" she asked.

"Uh," Shelagh began, not looking at Jocelyn, her fingers twirled Jasper's mane. Jocelyn reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Someone here hasn't upset you have they?" Jocelyn asked.

Shelagh shook her head, and, finally facing Jocelyn said, "no, nobody here has upset me, the only one who has upset me is the one who isn't here."

"You're Angela's still gallivanting round the world with that Yankie toff?" Jocelyn asked with an uncharacteristic level of venom in her voice, "Tim told us," she added after seeing Shelagh's questioning reaction.

"No," Shelagh replied, "and that is the worst part about it, she's in the country."

"How do you know?"

"I contacted the Foreign Office in the summer, and they investigated her whereabouts. It turns out that she arrived in London in the middle of November." Shelagh began to snivel, Jocelyn pulled a handkerchief out of her jacket pocket and handed it to her, "I'm sorry," Shelagh continued as she dried her eyes.

"And you've heard nothing from her? She hasn't visited? Or even phoned?"

"No, nothing at all."

"What is the Foreign Office doing now?"

"They've closed the case, as it's now a domestic issue it was referred to the Home Office. I'm just waiting to hear from them. It's the waiting and not knowing that I find so hard."

"I'm so sorry Shelagh."

"I'm beginning to wonder whether she will ever come back."

"She'll come back," Jocelyn said after a moment, "when she realises that she needs someone who loves her."

"I think she's convinced that Matthias is the only one who loves her, and she's with him."

"His love is conditional though," Jocelyn replied wisely, "your love for Angela is unconditional. One day she'll realise the difference."

"It's been nearly two years since I've seen her, even if she did come home, I don't think I would know what to say to her."

"You would say exactly what was necessary, but let's across that bridge when we come to it."

"If we come to it."

"When we come to it, she'll come home Shelagh, only she knows when, but she will."

Shelagh said nothing, but ran her hand down Jasper's shoulder, feeling the warm softness of his coat on her cold fingers.

"Does Tim know about his sister?" Jocelyn continued.

"No," Shelagh replied, "I've haven't even told Patrick. I didn't want to confuse or upset him by raising his hopes of seeing Angela again. He's been remarkably well since we've been here, but sometimes his symptoms are so bad he barely knows who I am. I don't want to exacerbate anything."

"I understand that," Jocelyn murmured, "but Tim needs to know the truth, when are you going to tell him?"

"Um, uh, I," Shelagh stammered. She had not given such a situation a moment's thought.

"I'll get him now then," Jocelyn said boldly and before Shelagh knew what was happening she had squeezed Mulligan into a trot and headed up the path towards the head of the ride where Timothy, Don and Chris were passing a hip flask between themselves, calling "Poppy, you're pulling Smithy's mouth," and "Richard you're not a jockey, take those stirrups down," as she went past.

Worried that Jasper would run off after Mulligan, Shelagh tensed up, gripping with her knees and grasping the reins for dear life, but she need not have worried, for solid, dependable Jasper carried on as slowly and gently as he had done all morning. Up ahead, Timothy had slowed Todd to a halt, waiting for Shelagh to catch him up.

"Are you alright Mum, Jocelyn said you needed to tell me something."

"Yes Tim," Shelagh replied, swallowing a lump in her throat. She paused, and Timothy gave her a sideways glance under the peak of his riding hat.

"It's only me," Timothy said when Shelagh's story was not forthcoming. He draped Todd's reins across his withers and leaned over to put an arm around his mother's shoulders.

"It's about Angela," Shelagh began.

"Angela," Timothy said brightly, "is she alright?"

"I don't know."

"Have you heard from her then?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Shelagh spent the next few minutes telling Timothy about her visit to Chichester, Sister Julienne's suggestion, her conversation with the Foreign Office, the letter she had received and how the case had been referred on to the Home Office.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before now," she apologised, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I also probably should have told you something before now," Timothy murmured, "but I didn't want to upset you either. The other night, I, saw Angela's room. I didn't realise." His voice trailed off.

Shelagh stared wide-eyed at Timothy, her jaw dropped slightly and her cheeks, already red from the cold, shone even brighter. She could not answer him verbally.

"Sorry Mum."

"I just can't bear the thought of disturbing anything in there," Shelagh said after a moment, "I don't want to disturb the memories."

Timothy stared off into the snowy horizon for a moment, aware that he only partially comprehended his mother's reasoning. He then said,

"If she flew into London, why didn't she come and see you, or even tell you she was back?"

"I don't know Tim, I really don't understand at all."

"You'll let me know if you hear anything, won't you?"

"I promise Tim."

"Simon and Jocelyn have said you can stay as long as you want," Timothy said, changing the subject, "certainly everyone is staying until after New Year, but we might be staying longer, it's up to you."

"That's very kind of them," Shelagh replied.

"Well you won't want to move very far for a few days at least," Timothy continued, a sly grin creeping across his face.

"What do you mean?" Shelagh asked.

"I remember how saddle sore I was after my first ride. You won't be able to shut your legs for a week."

"Timothy!"

Shelagh was indeed saddle sore for several days, and her hobbling about the house caused much hilarity amongst the more seasoned riders. The family toasted 1980 in together and on New Year's Day shared yet another spectacular feast. Over the next few days various family members began to head home until, by the evening of 5th January, only Patrick, Shelagh, Timothy, Lucy and the children remained.

"If we set off fairly early tomorrow," Timothy suggested through a mouthful of hot chocolate, "then I won't be back too late as I have to work on Monday."

"That sounds fine," Shelagh said a little sadly, not at all keen to be leaving Appleby Farm.

At 8:30 the following morning, Simon and Jocelyn stood in the porch and said goodbye to Shelagh and Patrick, exchanging warm hugs and handshakes.

"Thank you so much for having us," they said.

"It was absolute pleasure, please do come and see us again."

As Shelagh turned to get into the car, Jocelyn took her arm and said gently.

"All will be well, I know it."

"I do hope so," Shelagh replied, giving Jocelyn another hug, before getting into the car. As the car sped away out of the farmyard Shelagh continued to wave until the warm, cosy, homely farmhouse was out of sight.


	21. Chapter 21

Jules returned to Stepney a few days after the New Year. Although she had enjoyed spending the Christmas holiday with Fr Benjamin and his family, she was glad to be back. Fr Benjamin, of course, was kept busy over Christmas, so they could not spend as much time together as either of them would have liked. His parents, Judith and Michael, were like a second mother and father to her, but, as a result, Jules occasionally felt smothered by their affections. But Aloysius, a short, dark haired, rounded, brick layer and plasterer, the antipodes of his elder brother, sharing with him only his kind grey eyes, was, just as Jules remembered him, great fun, good company and a willing drinking partner. The three of them had sat up well into the early hours of the morning on several occasions, talking over glasses of the potent cocktail which Fr Benjamin had learned to make whilst he was in seminary.

The house was cold, dark and empty when Jules returned that wet afternoon. Although far from palatial, 24 Bermondsey Lane seemed large, vacant and unfriendly without Shelagh and Patrick. It was the quiet which Jules found most perturbing, and with no-one at all to speak to for three days, she felt terribly lonely. She tidied the house, stocked up the fridge, baked, and sorted out the pile of letters, newspapers and junk mail which had accumulated on the doormat while they had all been away. When Shelagh, Patrick and Timothy eventually arrived back, Jules was buzzing with excitement.

"Did you have a good time? How are the grandchildren? Tell me all about Cumbria."

Shelagh and Patrick could not help smiling, "All in good time," Shelagh giggled.

After Timothy had left again, over tea and one of Jules' homemade sponge cakes, Patrick and Shelagh relayed the story of their Christmas break.

"So that was what we got up to," Shelagh said, a wide grin and a sparkle in her eye lighting up her entire face.

"I'm so glad you had a lovely time," Jules replied, half pleased, half relived.

"How was your time with your nice young man?" Patrick asked.

"You know full well that he's not my nice young man," Jules replied crossly, but, seeing that Patrick was smirking, softened her tone, "he was very well, as were his family, and I had a lovely time, doing very little, and eating and drinking far too much. Though, it was nice to get back."

"Have you been bored by any chance since you got back?" Shelagh asked, "I see you've been tidying up."

"Was that a subtle way of saying I'm messy?" Jules grinned.

"No, not, exactly!" Shelagh said, slyly.

"Good! Oh that reminds me," Jules said, getting up from her chair and walking over to the kitchen hatch, where a pile of unopened post stood, and, rummaging through, continued, "this arrived while we were all away, it looks important," she added, handing it to Shelagh before returning to her chair.

Shelagh took the letter from Jules and, noticing the postmark, her heart skipped several beats.

"Is everything alright?" Jules asked, noticing the worried look on Shelagh's face.

"I don't know," Shelagh replied honestly.

She said no more as she carefully opened the thick white envelope, her hands shaking as she did so. Unfolding the now, unfortunately familiar, white, Government headed paper, she began to read:

_Dear Mrs. Turner,_

_The Department for Home Affairs writes in response to the inter-department memorandum received from the Department for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs on November 25__th__ last year, concerning the current whereabouts of your daughter, Miss Angela Grace Turner (D.O.B. 31/10/1959) The Office would like to assure you that we, in partnership with our colleagues at the Metropolitan Police, have carried out a most thorough investigation into what must be a distressing issue for you._

_Regarding this issue, a Mrs. Christine McMahon, who gave her occupation as Mr. Aston-Fitzwilliam's housekeeper and cook, told the investigating officer that, on December10__th__ last year, she witnessed Mr. Aston-Fitzwilliam engaged in what she described as "a fierce argument" with a woman matching Miss. Turner's description in the street outside his home. Although Mrs. McMahon confirmed that she had met Miss Turner on a number of occasions prior to December10__th__ last year, she was unable to confirm the identity of the woman whom Mr. Aston-Fitzwilliam was arguing with on December 10__th__. She however stated that the woman that visited on December 10__th__, as far as she was aware, had not returned to the house since that day. _

_When interviewed, Mr. Aston-Fitzwilliam declined to comment on whether he had argued with Miss Turner, stated that he knew Miss Turner, but could not remember the last time he saw her, and claimed that he was unaware of her current whereabouts. Although currently there is no evidence to suggest any suspicious circumstances, on the advice of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir David McNee, Mr. Aston-Fitzwilliam was subject to a period of low-level surveillance, but as of the date of this letter, this surveillance has proved unremarkable._

_The Metropolitan Police have also carried out a thorough investigation of boarding houses, lodgings, letting agents and youth hostels across London, but none report renting accommodation to anyone matching your daughter's description. A wider search of the country will now be undertaken, so if you know of any places your daughter may go to, please inform the Department for Home Affairs by telephone or post to the contact details at the top of this page._

_Please be assured that, despite these initial setbacks, the Department for Home Affairs is doing all it can to resolve this issue, and hopes that it can be carried out in a satisfactory manner._

_Signed on behalf of The Right Honourable William Whitelaw, Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Home Affairs_.

Shelagh hands continued to shake as she lowered the letter and her eyes began to sparkle with tears. All her instincts were telling her to leave the room as fast as she could, but the two pairs of eyes watching her, kind and loving as they were, rooted her to the spot with fear.

"Who was your letter from?" Patrick asked.

Shelagh looked from Patrick, to Jules, to the letter and then back to Patrick again. Patrick looked on expectantly, Jules, who had previously seen the official-looking post mark, avoided Shelagh's gaze, fiddling with her hands nervously.

"It, was," Shelagh began, her breath hitching and her voice crackling as she said it.

"Do you want me to go?" Jules asked, beginning to get up from her chair.

"No," Shelagh said, "I mean, you don't have to. I want you to stay," she finished.

Jules lowered herself back into her chair looking suspiciously at Shelagh. Patrick, although he could not clearly see the expressions on his companion's faces, was acutely aware that all was not well.

"What's happened darling?" he asked, reaching out to stroke Shelagh's arm.

Shelagh took a deep breath and began,

"Back in August, while I was in Chichester, I told Sister Julienne for the first time the truth about Angela. She asked me whether I had done anything about trying to find her. It seems so stupid now, thinking about it, why did I not think to try and find her before? Sister Julienne suggested contacting the Foreign Office, which I did. They wrote to me in November, telling me that Angela had arrived in London from Buenos Aires a few weeks earlier."

"You didn't tell me that," Patrick snapped, "Why not?"

"I didn't want," Shelagh began, unwilling to admit to him the true reason, "I should have done, I'm sorry."

An awkward silence descended. After what seemed like several minutes, Jules, unable to stand the atmosphere any longer, plucked up the courage to say,

"So what happened next?"

"The letter from the Foreign Office said that Angela and Matthias had travelled home separately, she arrived back over a week before he did. The case was then passed onto the Home Office, and this is the letter from them."

Shelagh's voice began to crack again and, try as she might, the words that were in her head, would not form into coherent speech.

"And what does that letter say?" Patrick asked.

"It says that, they haven't found her, at least not in London. The police have questioned Matthias, and it seems they've been together since they flew home, but he doesn't know, or won't admit to knowing, where she is. They've searched boarding houses and hostels, places where a young girl might stay, but nothing. The trail seems, for now, to have gone cold. They've asked if there are any places outside of London that she might go to, but I can't think of any."

"Would she go to Chichester?" Jules suggested.

"I doubt it," Shelagh replied, "if she won't come to us, she certainly won't turn to her godmother. Sister Julienne tried to talk to her when she first starting getting into trouble at school, and, well, it would be an understatement to say that it did not go smoothly. I don't think they've spoken for years."

"Did you ever go anywhere special on holiday, somewhere where she was really happy?"

"I don't think so," Shelagh answered, "I think she was only really happy when she was with him," she finished, as a tear began to run down her cheek.

"Hey, don't cry," Jules said, putting an arm round Shelagh, and gesticulating to Patrick to join them, put her other arm around his shoulder, "with parents as kind, loving and caring as you two, it is impossible that she could have been unhappy."

Shelagh and Patrick looked at the girl who was sat between them, as though unconvinced of what she had said. Unperturbed, Jules continued,

"They'll find her, she can't be too far away, and there is always hope."

"I do hope you are right," Shelagh replied, drying her eyes and curling closer into Jules.

"Hmmm," Patrick agreed, but seemingly without any real conviction.

"Yes," Jules thought to herself, "so do I."


	22. Chapter 22

After the revelations of that cold, wet January evening, Angela Turner's whereabouts was no longer mentioned in conversation. On later reflection, Shelagh felt a great sense of relief that she had told Patrick and Jules what she had been hiding over the past few months, as difficult as it had been for her. She now knew she was being honest with them, they knew as much, or as little perhaps, as she did.

Patrick Turner had seen a lot of life, throughout his relatively privileged youth and his happy, carefree years at a prestigious medical school, followed by those devastating years on the Front Line serving in the Medical Corps and a life of devoted service to the poorest of the poor in the East End. He knew that there were many reasons why people turn and run, not only from danger and strife, but also safety and security, familiarity and stability. As his tired, failing mind tried to piece together a reason for his little girls actions, that pretty little girl, whose face, as each day passed, seemed to grow fainter and fainter, he recalled from somewhere something Sister Julienne had once said,

"There are only two reasons for doing anything, one is love, and the other is fear."

"Who does she love? And who is she frightened of?" he thought.

Cold and wet January soon turned into an equally dismal February. For a few weeks after receiving the letter from the Home Office, Shelagh had returned to her daily ritual of anxiously anticipating news in the morning post, but when she realised that it was futile, she barely took notice of the postman's arrival each morning. On more than one occasion, Jules would return home from work and the morning post would still be scattered across the doormat. Jules began to worry, but sensed that Shelagh really did not want to talk; she had never seen her so withdrawn.

"Are you coming to choir practice tonight?" Jules asked.

"No," Shelagh said blankly, "I don't want to."

"Alright then," Jules replied, "see you later," she added as she headed out the door alone.

"Cheer up Jules!" Adrian chirped two hours later as they were leaving the Community Centre after the rehearsal. When Jules scowled at him he dropped his jovial manner and said, "Is everything alright?"

"I've just got a lot on my mind, that's all."

At that moment, Teddy joined them with a bounce in his step and a grin across his rugged, finely chiselled features.

"Aren't you a bit old to be excited about your birthday Teddy?" Adrian said, the playful chirp returning to his voice, "How old are you, 26 going on 10?"

"Oh shush," Teddy replied, aiming a playful swipe at Adrian, "come on, let's go up West and have a proper night out."

"Ah yeah!" Adrian replied, "Coming Jules?" he added.

Jules hesitated for a moment, not really in the mood for a Friday night up West, but, seeing her friend's faces, replied, "Yep I'm coming."

Jules, Teddy and Adrian found themselves in a bar in Fulham, where they were joined at various points in the evening by Teddy's friends who lived nearby. The bar was busy and noisy all evening, but after the landlord had called last orders, the place began to quieten.

It was just before chucking out time when it happened. There were only a few tables still occupied, as the remaining customers finished off the last of their pints. Jules, Teddy and Adrian where debating how best to return to Poplar and Stepney at that time of night, when the sound of a scuffle disturbed their thoughts.

"You were supposed to be getting rid of it!" a loud, deep voice, slightly slurred with alcohol, resonated around the pub, in amongst a scraping of chairs and a bang of a fist on the heavy wooden table.

"I, I," a girl's voice choked with tears stammered through the din, "please, I, couldn't,"

"You lying little," the man's voice continued, as he raised his hand above his head.

"Owwww!" the girl screamed as her companion's hand hit her square in the face, "please, no, don't," she continued, cowering into her chair, flinching in anticipation of a further blow.

By this point the rest of the patrons in the bar had noticed the kafuffle, but nobody moved, nobody dared to get involved. The man cast another blow on the girl's face, bloodying her nose and kicked her ankle under the table. Piercing screams rang around the bar, but still, nobody dared approach the man. Teddy and Adrian by this point could watch on no longer. Although both much smaller than the abusive man, they jumped up, ran to that corner of the bar and between the two of them, managed to grab his arms from behind before he could hit the girl again.

"Get off me," the abusive man shouted at the two boys, "stay out of this!"

He managed to shake his right arm out of Adrian's grasp and aimed a punch at him. Adrian, although thick-set and strong, was a good eight inches shorter than the abusive man, so was able to duck and aim a blow into the man's stomach before he knew what was going on. Doubled over in pain, the abusive man let his guard down just long enough to allow Teddy and Adrian to restrain him.

"Come on sunshine," Teddy said, as he and Adrian dragged the abusive man out of the bar and into the street.

In the melee that had ensued, Jules had ran over the where the battered girl was slumped on her chair. She was thankfully, fully conscious, so Jules said,

"Come on, I'll get you home."

She helped the girl to her feet, handed her her handkerchief to stem the flow of blood that was gushing down her face. It was then that Jules noticed the girl's swollen abdomen. Jules began to lead her towards the door where Teddy and Adrian had just dragged the abusive man, when the girl stopped.

"Don't go that way," the girl said, "I don't want him to see me, there's a back entrance, to the side of the bar," she added, pointing across the room.

Leaning on Jules, the girl stumbled across the bar, and the two of them headed out of a door, down an alleyway and out into the cold night. When they were a safe distance away from the bar, the girl slumped onto a low wall, wincing in pain, grasping her left ankle

"Owwww," she said, tears of pain now running down her face.

"You're not going to be able to walk in those," Jules said, noticing the elegant stilettos the girl was wearing, "what size are you?"

"6 ½," the girl replied with a confused tone to her voice.

"Good, so am I," Jules said, kicking off her flat shoes, "let's swop, these will be more comfortable for you, I'm Jules by the way," she added as she handed the girl her shoes.

"I'm Anne," the girl replied, "Anne Jones."

"Nice to meet you," Jules said kindly, as she slipped Anne's stilettos onto her own feet, "woah, how do you balance in these?" she asked as she got to her feet, wobbling on the thin heels.

"Practice!" Anne said, a smile creeping across her face at the sight of Jules.

"So, how far do I have to walk in these infernal things to get you home?" Jules asked.

"Not far," Anne replied, "I only live three streets away."

"Good!" Jules said, letting out a sigh of relief.

The two girls walked slowly and silently through the night until they reached a row of Regency terraces.

"I live in the basement flat," Anne said, pointing to a set of steep, dark, unlit stairs, "can you help me down?"

"Of course."

Jules and Anne entered Anne's tiny basement flat. Although the exterior of the terrace was fine and grand, the interior left much to be desired. The flat was small, and smelt of damp. When Anne turned the lights on the sense of squalor continued. The furniture was old and wobbly, the wallpaper, yellowed with damp, was peeling off the walls, the thin curtains were ripped and the single, tiny window was smeared with grease and grimy water marks. It had been cold outside, but there had been a noticeable drop in temperature when they entered the flat. Jules felt her shoulders shiver.

In the faint light of the room, Jules noticed for the first time how pretty her companion could have been, had she looked after herself. She was younger than Jules, she thought, and her reddish hair, with some attention, would have bounced in fine ringlets, but instead hung limply and misshaped around her freckled face. Her green eyes looked tired and fearful and her skin bore glimpses of what would have been a fine suntan. Although on the whole she was very slim, almost painfully so, her pregnancy was obvious.

"Have you got anything you can strap that ankle with?" Jules asked, "Or something cold to bring the swelling down?"

"No" Anne said, throwing Jules' shoes off and slumping onto her metal framed bed, which promptly creaked and sagged beneath her weight.

"Prop it up on a pillow," Jules said, "have you got a scarf or anything like that?"

"In the wardrobe," Anne said, manoeuvring herself on the bed, "careful though, the hinge is broken."

Jules slowly opened the door and eventually found a long silk scarf. As she looked through Anne's wardrobe, she noticed the number of fine clothes inside it, designer labels, silks, piles and piles of shoes.

"How can a girl who lives like this have all these things?" she thought.

Jules wrapped the silk scarf tightly round Anne's ankle, knotting the end above the joint.

"Right, hopefully that will hold for tonight," Jules said, as she headed towards the tiny, mould-ridden shower room which led off the room they were in to get a wet flannel to wash the blood from Anne's face, "here you go," she said handing it to her, "I'll call a doctor in the morning, so he can come and have a look at you."

"No, please, no," Anne begged, "no doctor's, I'll be fine, but," she paused, "would you be able to get me some painkillers and a bandage or something tomorrow?"

"Um, it's a bit out of my way," Jules began, dreading having to trek from Stepney to Fulham on a Saturday, but seeing the look of desperation on Anne's face, added, "alright, I will do, but it may not be very early, I live in Stepney."

"Oh," Anne replied, "thank you though, if it's really not too much trouble."

"No, don't worry," Jules replied, "right, I must be heading home, I'll see you in the morning. Look after that ankle, and that baby."

Anne's eyes widened in fear, but said nothing.

"Get some rest," Jules replied, "goodnight."

It was quarter to three in the morning before Jules managed to stumble into the house, after several Tube trains, late night buses and walking the last mile or so. Deciding a hot chocolate with a shot of the whisky which Aloysius had bought her for Christmas in it would warm her up, she headed towards the kitchen. But as she flicked the sitting room light on, something drew her gaze towards the bookcase in the corner of the room.


	23. Chapter 23

Jules' eyes widened, she felt a bizarre sensation in the pit of her stomach and her pulse began to race. She crept across the room, her knees shaking underneath her, verging on buckling with every step. She made to rub the sleep from her eyes, having been dead on her feet five minutes previously, but realised that she was suddenly wide awake. She stared from photograph to photograph on the bookcase, and the same tall, slim, pretty, titian-haired, green-eyed, freckled-faced girl stared back at her.

"It can't be!" Jules gasped aloud.

She continued to stare at the girl in the photographs. The girl looking back at Jules was younger than the girl she, Teddy, and Adrian had rescued from the violent man in the bar, but she looked about the right height and build, her hair was the same colour, and, as Jules imagined it would be, was set in ornate ringlets, and her eyes were the same colour, and may well have been the same shape, had they not been swollen with the combined effects of having been crying and slapped across the face. But then she noticed the girl's smile, it was a kind, almost cheeky sort of smile which dimpled her freckled cheeks. It was the same smile that Anne had given her as she, Jules, had wobbled on those ridiculous stilettos.

"It is her, I'm sure of it!" Jules continued aloud, "I think I've just found Angela Turner."

Jules' knees began to quake underneath her again, so she slumped into a chair before she fell over. Her mind was racing as fast as her heartbeat, and she could barely comprehend what had happened. She needed to tell someone, she wanted to shout her news from the rooftops, she wanted to run and tell Shelagh and Patrick what she knew.

"No," she said, "think rationally, you can't do that."

Jules shivered, and remembered the drink she was going to make, but decided, given the circumstances, to skip the hot chocolate and go straight for the whisky. As she sat and drank her way through the large glass she had poured herself, her mind was awash with emotions. She sat in the silent house, trying to make sense of things, but as she reached out to top up her glass of whisky, she had another idea. She got up from her chair, walked into the hall and pulled the telephone as far into the room as the cord would allow, closing the door behind her. After rummaging in her handbag for her notebook, she flicked through it to find the telephone number she needed. Her hands were shaking so much that she could barely dial the number. As it began to ring, Jules found her breaths were mimicking the rhythm of the dialling tone.

"Come on," she whispered.

"St Peter's Church, Fr. Benjamin Wheatley speaking," a sleepy, yet formal, voice eventually answered.

"Ben, it's Jules."

"Jules, it's 3:30 in the morning, you woke me up!" came the response, the formal tone immediately disappearing.

"Well I shouldn't have," Jules replied, "you're supposed to be on call for the hospital chaplaincy."

"How on earth did you know that?" Fr. Benjamin yawned.

"Who do you think wrote all those important dates on your calendar?"

"Hmm, I had noticed that your birthday was written in rather large letters," Fr. Benjamin mused, "anyway, what on earth do you want at this time in the morning?"

"I think I've found Angela, Shelagh and Patrick's daughter!"

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Jules felt her heart pounding in her chest.

"What?" Fr. Benjamin stammered after a moment.

"I think I met her earlier, well yesterday," Jules replied.

"You think?"

"It's quite a long story," Jules continued.

"Well, since I'm now awake," Fr. Benjamin said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "you better tell me what has happened."

Jules spent the next ten minutes telling Fr Benjamin about Shelagh's search for Angela, the letters which she had received from the Foreign and Home Offices and the events of the night out in Fulham which she had had with Teddy and Adrian.

"Are you sure it's her?" Fr Benjamin asked.

"I'm convinced," Jules replied, "the pictures are a bit old, obviously, but I'm so sure it's her."

"Are you going to try and find out?"

"Well, I promised her I would go back tomorrow and take her a proper bandage for her ankle and some painkillers. I was going to ask her then."

"Well, make sure you don't put your foot in it."

"What do you mean?"

"If she's not using her true identity, there must be a very good reason for it. She's obviously frightened of something, or someone, and I have a feeling that it isn't just that violent boyfriend of hers. A complete stranger blowing her cover is likely to terrify her. Please, try and be slightly more discrete than usual."

"I hadn't thought about that," Jules replied sheepishly.

"Well, if you're going to say something, just be careful."

"I don't think I could forgive myself if I don't find out for certain."

"I had a feeling you would say that."

"Well, what else can I do?"

"Nothing. You must do what you know is right."

"Then I will," Jules affirmed, "well, I'll let you get back to bed!"

"Thanks Jules, goodnight and God bless."

"'Night Benji."

Returning the telephone to its place in the hall, Jules returned to the chair, finished off the last drop of whisky and curled up into a ball. The next thing she was aware of was a gentle touch on her arm and the sound of a kind voice saying,

"Wakey, wakey!"

"Wh, wh, what?" Jules stammered.

"Good morning my dear, did you have a good night?" Shelagh asked, handing Jules a mug of coffee.

"Um, er, yes," Jules began, stretching her arms and legs over the sides of the armchair, and taking the coffee from Shelagh, asked, "What time is it?"

"Just after eleven," Shelagh replied, grinning.

"Oh no," Jules gasped, jumping from the chair, spilling coffee everywhere, "I've got to go."

"Where?" Shelagh asked.

"Um, I, I've just got to go," Jules called as she ran out the room, and up the stairs, drinking her remaining coffee as she ran.

"Are you alright?" Shelagh asked when Jules re-emerged fifteen minutes later, showered, dressed, and with an empty coffee mug.

"Yes, yes, of course!" Jules said brightly, handing Shelagh her mug, "see you later," she added as she headed out the front door.

The journey across central London from Stepney to Fulham was not pleasant. The weather was an improvement on what it had been of late, so the streets and the public transport system were even busier than usual with everyone deciding to make the most of it. The addition of thousands of football supporters heading towards Stamford Bridge and Loftus Road exacerbated the congestion. After stopping at Boots for bandages, and painkillers, Jules arrived outside the basement flat where she had been the previous evening. She knocked on the door, and a section of the flaky, red, paint fell off as she did so.

"Hello Anne, how are you feeling?" Jules asked when the door was answered.

"Dreadful," Anne replied, "my ankle is really sore."

She was limping badly on it, and, in the daylight, Jules noticed a bluish tinge to the whole of the left side of Anne's face.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, I overslept."

"That's alright; you probably didn't get home very early, did you?"

"Well, technically quarter to three is very early but not when you haven't been to bed," Jules said.

Anne smiled at her, the same smile that the girl in the photographs at 24 Bermondsey Lane had, dimpled cheeks and all, "It's definitely her," Jules thought to herself.

"But, never mind," Jules continued aloud, "I'm here now. Now, let's have a look at this ankle."

Anne's ankle was still very swollen. Jules handed her the pain killers and anti-inflammatory tablets which she had brought and began to bandage her ankle. An old white scar ran up it, which she had tried to disguise with a tattoo of four intertwined sunflowers.

"Looks like you've been in the wars a bit with this ankle before," Jules said.

"Yes," Anne replied, grimacing through the pain, "I decided to wear a pair of stilettos to school when I was about thirteen and fell down the stairs in them, had to have the whole joint pinned back together."

"And you didn't learn from that?" Jules remarked, thinking how much her feet hurt by the time she had walked back from the bar in Anne's shoes.

"Nope, I'm a stubborn one me," Anne replied.

"Well, if you put the stilettos away for a while," Jules said kindly, "you might get away with not having to see the doctor."

"Good."

"There we go Angela," Jules said as she pinned the bandage into place, "that's all…"

Jules stopped herself and a terrible sense of dread engulfed her.

"I'm mean Anne, sorry, I'm dreadful with names," she said awkwardly and far, far too slowly.

She looked at her companion's face hoping that she would not have seen her mistake as a Freudian slip. On the contrary, she looked horror-struck.

"What did you just call me?"

"Sorry, I," Jules began to stammer, but, knowing there was no way she could come up with a convincing lie, blurted out, "your name's not Anne Jones is it?"

"How on earth?" her companion began, as lost for words as Jules was.

"Your real name is Angela Turner isn't it?"

Jules watched as her companion's face warped and morphed through a series of emotions; shock, rage, loathing, terror, fear and finally dread all flashed across it before Jules' eyes. Finally, she nodded, biting her lip and avoiding Jules' gaze as she did so.

"What do you know, and how?" Angela eventually gasped.

"I know that your name is Angela Turner, you are twenty years old and that when you were no more than a few hours old, you were adopted by Patrick and Shelagh Turner. You have an elder brother called Timothy, who lives in Carlisle with his wife Lucy. You left school to work in a restaurant, where you met an American socialite called Matthias, who you had been travelling the world with until November last year. I can only infer that this Matthias is the man who was beating you black and blue last night, and that he is the father of your child. Am I right?"

Angela nodded.

"And I know all this," Jules continued, "because I have been lodging with your parents since last July."

"Lodging? With Mum and Dad?"

"Yes," Jules replied.

"Why?"

"Because your mother found my request for accommodation in the paper, and allowed me to rent their spare room."

"How are they?" Angela asked, shyly.

"Your father is not well," Jules began, looking Angela square in the eye, "his Parkinson's has deteriorated noticeably since I have known him. Your mother is as well as can be expected, given the circumstances," she finished poignantly.

"Oh," Angela replied in a small voice.

Neither girl said anything for a moment, until Jules broke the silence,

"What happened Angela?" she asked.

Angela gave Jules a nervous look, as though trying to decide whether or not she could trust her.

"If I tell you, you won't judge me, will you?" Angela enquired after a moment.

"No, of course not," Jules replied, moving to sit on the end of Angela's bed and put a hand gently on her arm.

"Well, it's quite a long story," Angela began, looking round at Jules as if in need of reassurance.

"I have all day," Jules said kindly, "I'll listen to all you have to say."

Angela took a deep breath, and began her story.


	24. Chapter 24

"Mum and Dad were always open with me about the fact that I was adopted," Angela began, "so I could never accuse them of hiding things from me, or deceiving me. But when I was about twelve, it suddenly dawned on me what it actually meant to be adopted. I realised that the people who I had called my mother and father all my life, weren't my mother and father in the biological sense, but, for want of a better phrase, they had been given me. I thought then, young, and ignorant as I was, that I was something to be passed around. My biological parents didn't want me, my adoptive parents couldn't have what they wanted, and so they were given me, as some kind of token gesture. Looking back now, I realise that that was not the case. I'd been given them too."

A look of shamefulness spread across Angela's face and she sat in silence for a moment.

"Did you ever talk to your Mum and Dad about how you felt?" Jules asked.

"No," Angela replied, "the exact reason why my biological parents put me up for adoption was the one thing which Mum and Dad never told me. They told me that they weren't able to look after me and wanted to give me to someone who couldn't have a baby of their own and would be able to love and care for me."

Jules noticed Angela's shoulders grow rigid and that she was biting her lip. Jules moved her hand from Angela's arm to round her shoulder.

"Your Mum told me that you went to look for your biological parents."

"Oh, did she?" Angela replied, moving away from Jules' contact, her tone becoming noticeably sharper, "and what else has she been telling you about me?"

"Do you honestly want to know?" Jules asked quietly.

"Yes," Angela replied, her tone a little softer than before.

"I have had your Mum crying inconsolably in my arms about how much she misses you, how much she loves you, and how she is convinced that it is her and your Dad's fault that you went off with Matthias. She's becoming more and more depressed and withdrawn the longer you're away."

"Oh!" Angela replied sheepishly. There was another awkward silence.

"In that case," she continued, "you probably know as much as Mum knows. She must like you to have told you that much. Normally she only tells Sister Julienne that sort of thing."

"Your Mum has told me what she wanted me to hear, and I listened," Jules replied, "which is a different thing altogether."

"Yes," Angela mused, "I suppose so."

Another poignant silence descended.

"So you know that I went to search for my biological parents," Angela eventually continued, "well my biological mother was a girl called Rita Jones, she was sixteen years old when she gave birth to me, and she was about to take me home, when her parents decided at the last minute that they weren't going to let her keep me. So I was taken to the Church of England Children Society's home, and my mother was led away, never to see me again. I asked if she ever came looking for me. Apparently not! I suspect my grandparents forbid her. She apparently was killed several years later."

"Goodness," Jules gasped, "What about your biological father, did you ever find him?"

"No because even Rita didn't know who he was. Well, if she did she didn't admit it, my birth certificate just says 'father unknown.'"

"What does that mean?"

"Well, I assume she was either raped or was selling herself," Angela said blankly, "unless of course she got so drunk one night she couldn't remember who she slept with. Either way, I don't think I was conceived by an act of love, it seems I was unwanted before I was even born."

Tears began to run down Angela's bruised cheeks. Jules hugged her, and Angela buried her face in Jules' shoulder.

"But Patrick and Shelagh wanted you, more than anything in the world," Jules said, stroking Angela's limp, greasy, hair, "they still do," she added.

Angela looked at Jules as though unconvinced and said nothing, but continued to quietly sob. After a minute or two, she continued.

"I never particularly liked school; I was never a scholar like Tim. After I had found out, or not, however you want to put it, about my biological parents, I became determined to discover who I truly was. I soon decided that I was not going to find myself in an encyclopaedia or an algebra text book, so I thought I should live a little. School no longer mattered, neither did the family which I was supposed to belong to, but felt so isolated from. Beer, drugs, my friends, parties and having sex mattered to me. The path I chose, however wrong it was, was one I had chosen for myself, it hadn't been determined by anyone else or any circumstance beyond my control. It was my choice and I loved it. I knew my parents hated it, but I didn't care."

"Geez Angela," Jules gasped, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline, "how old were you then?"

"Fifteen, sixteen, I suppose," Angela said, "I'm not proud of what I did. Mum and Dad didn't know half of what I got up to, well, I don't think they ever found out about the cannabis and I certainly didn't tell them about the sex!"

A mischievous glint shone in Angela's green eyes and she started to grin, then began to stroke her abdomen. Jules could not help grinning back.

"I was a bit more careful back then."

"So when did you meet Matthias?" Jules asked.

"I stayed in school just about long enough to scrape a few O-Level passes," Angela replied, "and then as soon as I left I went out looking for work and found a waitressing job in Mayfair. Mattie seemed to be in there most days, usually for breakfast, Eggs Benedict, or scrambled eggs with smoked salmon in it, or, less frequently, lunch with his business clients. He was always so well dressed, and used to always give anyone who served him a generous tip. One morning as he handed me a crisp ten pound note out of his jacket pocket, he whispered in my ear, 'how would you like to eat in a place like this, rather than work in it?' To begin with I was quite confused. I really didn't know what to make of his offer. He then said, 'I have a table reserved at the Dorchester, and I would like you to join me. Be there at seven.'"

"Did you go?" Jules enquired.

"Of course I did," Angela replied, "a dashingly gorgeous man offers a seventeen year old girl dinner in one of the finest hotels in London, I would have thought myself mad if I refused! I finished work at four that day, took my days tips, bought the nicest outfit I could afford and arrived at the Dorchester just before seven."

"What happened?"

"I waited outside the door, I didn't dare go in. Seven arrived, no sign of him, ten past, still nothing. I began to think that he had been joking. I was just about to go when an enormous red Ferrari crawled up to the front of the Dorchester. And at the wheel, was Mattie. He climbed out of the car, threw his keys and a fiver at the valet parking attendant, kissed me on the cheek, apologised for being late, and whisked me into the grand dining room of the Dorchester Hotel!"

"Wow!" Jules exclaimed.

"And that is where our relationship began," Angela said wistfully, "we carried on seeing each other regularly after that, he took me places I never even dreamt of going. I felt happier with Mattie than I had ever thought I could possibly be. He was perfect, and my world was perfect."

"So how did you end up travelling around the world?"

"After we had been seeing each other for about six months, he asked if he could meet Mum and Dad. I really wasn't keen on the idea, we'd not really been on good terms and I thought that putting them and Mattie in the same room was not going to be a good idea, but he insisted. So they met over an awkward afternoon tea, and then Mattie and I went out for the evening. While we discussing what had happened, Mattie made some comment about how if he didn't know that Mum and Dad were my parents he would never have guessed that was who they were. That was when I told him that I was adopted."

"What did he say?"

"Not much to be honest, other than he now understood why I was not on the best of terms with them. I then explained about how out of place I felt, and how I wanted to know who I truly was. It was then he said something along the lines of go and have an adventure, 'be like Columbus and Magellan and Cook' he said, 'go on a voyage of discovery, we could go together,' he added. So that night we planned our fantasy trip around the world, drawing route maps on the back of Mattie's business correspondence.

"And then did you head off?"

"No, not immediately, in fact nothing was mentioned again until my eighteenth birthday. He hand delivered my birthday card to work, and inside it was a first class flight ticket to Paris, dated for just after the New Year, and a note saying,

'_Leg One of our adventure, you and me vs. the world. Let's see who we can find._'

He then kissed my cheek and said, 'this is our secret, I love you.' From that moment, nothing, and nobody else in the whole world mattered to me."

"So, it was planned?" Jules asked, "Your Mum made out that you just disappeared one day."

"That was how I wanted it to seem," Angela replied, "our relationship was at its most fractured then and I honestly couldn't care less what I did to them or how much I hurt them, so even though it was pre-planned, I wanted them to come home and find I had upped sticks and left. Thinking about it now that was unnecessarily cruel wasn't it?"

"Just a bit," Jules gasped, "but wait, you sent postcards, if you wanted to hurt them so much, why did you write?"

"Don't know really," Angela replied casually, "perhaps I was a little remorseful. Perhaps I wrote them out of spite, telling them how happy I was without them, I don't really remember, I only wrote a few."

"What made you stop?"

A fire burned in Angela's eyes, fury and rage painted across her face, Jules looked at her in terror.

"He did," she growled.

"Go on," Jules said, anticipating the arrival of the crux of the issue.

"Within a few weeks of leaving London, Mattie began to change, he seemed different. Whereas before he was relaxed, carefree and jovial, he became tense, agitated, irritable, all the time, lashing out at people, especially if he thought another man was looking at me. He became more and more controlling, dominating, I had no say in anything, it was all about him. Then when we were in Copenhagen, he saw me writing a postcard home. He asked me what I was doing, and when I told him, he exploded with rage, 'I thought you were trying to rid yourself of your past?' he shouted, 'your future is with me, forget all this nonsense.' I was so madly in love with him and so afraid of losing him that I obeyed his every command. That postcard was the last one I sent, because I had been convinced that I wanted him more than I wanted my parents. Once he knew he had me all to himself, he mellowed back into the lovely gentle man that I had fallen in love with over dinner at the Dorchester. He knew I would do anything for him, and he played on my fear of losing him. He had me wrapped round his little finger. But I was too naïve and too besotted to notice. I just followed him around the world, from Cairo to Cape Town, the Middle East, across Asia as far as Hong Kong and Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, America, and everywhere in between. But then, this happened."

Angela paused and stroked her abdomen. Jules' lips rounded into a silent "Oh!"

"We had been trekking in the Amazonian rainforest and I started to feel sick. I dismissed it, assuming I had eaten something which didn't agree with me. But some weeks later, when we arrived in Buenos Aires, I was still being sick each day and it wasn't until then that I realised that I couldn't remember when my last period was. I plucked up the courage to admit to Mattie that I thought something was wrong. We went to the main hospital in Buenos Aires, and they ran all sorts of tests, but when they took my bloods, the result was as clear as day, I was carrying Mattie's child. They did an ultrasound, as if I needed further confirmation of the mess I was in, and they told me I was nearly three months pregnant."

"What did Mattie say?" Jules asked, though, given his behaviour the previous evening, she could hazard a guess.

"He was furious," Angela continued, "he wanted me to get rid of it there and then, he even asked the gynaecologist if he had space on his theatre list, but apparently abortions can only be undertaken in extreme circumstances in Argentina."

"I bet that pleased him."

"We went back to the hotel, had a blazing row, and before I knew it, I was on the first plane bound for London. I don't know where he went I didn't see him again for several weeks, when I went to his apartment to get some things."

"Did he send you back to have an abortion?" Jules asked gravely.

"Yes," Angela replied, "and several times over the next few weeks, I nearly went through with it, but each time, there was a nagging thought in the back of my head, something told me not to. When Mattie and I met again, and he realised I was still pregnant, he threatened me, told me that while our child lived, I was as good as dead to him. I stupidly still loved him, and thought he wanted me, so after another week or so I plucked up the courage and arranged for the abortion to take place."

"But you didn't go through with it that time either, what happened?"

"The night before the procedure, I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, and then, I felt the baby move for the first time, a little flutter, like a butterfly. I had never really felt any maternal affection for the baby before then, but at that moment I felt so happy, so privileged. And then I thought of Mum."

Angela rolled up her right shirt sleeve to reveal a tattoo of an off-white butterfly on her wrist.

"For two reasons," Angela continued "Mum loves butterflies, this one is a Cabbage White, its Latin name is…"

"Pieris Brassicae" Jules finished.

"How did you know that?"

"I'm full of useless pieces of information," Jules half-lied.

Angela smiled at Jules, and then stroked the butterfly on her wrist.

"The baby's movements, a tiny little thing, transforming inside me, were like the gentle flap of a butterfly's wing. It felt so special. It was a beautiful experience. Then I thought that Mum would have never felt her baby move."

Jules stared at Angela for a moment, a little confused by her words.

"She didn't tell you that bit then?" Angela asked, reading Jules' face.

Jules shook her head.

"Mum had no idea that she had conceived. She'd given up hope of that many years before. It was a miracle in itself and it's even rarer for a woman who has had tuberculosis of the pelvic organs to carry any pregnancy past the first trimester. Many miscarry, or they have an ectopic pregnancy like Mum did."

"Oh no!" Jules gasped.

"I don't really remember it happening, I was only about three, but we having tea and Mum suddenly screamed and collapsed in pain. Dad took her away, leaving Tim and me behind. Then she was gone for what seemed like ages, it was probably only about ten days, but that's a long time for a three year old. She told me when I was older enough to understand that as well as the ectopic pregnancy, she haemorrhaged so badly that, given her medical history, to prevent the risk of any further problems, they preformed a total hysterectomy."

"That was a bit radical!"

"It meant that she would never conceive again, but also it would mean that she would be safe from anything like that happening again," Angela said wisely, "I don't think they would have done it had there been another solution."

"I suppose not."

"You know the white rose at the bottom of the garden, in the flowerbed opposite the kitchen window?"

"Yes."

"Mum planted that in memory of her baby, near the sunflowers which she's grown every year since they adopted me."

Jules thought for a moment, trying to visualise the flowerbed Angela was referring to. The tall white rosebush she could see as clear as day, but she had not noticed any sunflowers there the previous summer. "Surely I would have noticed a group of sunflowers?" she thought.

"So that's what stopped me going through with the abortion," Angela continued, "I decided that I wanted my child more than I wanted its father. And as you saw last night, Mattie wasn't quite in agreement with me."

"That's putting it mildly," Jules replied, "did you arrange to meet him?"

"No, he saw me walking past the bar and told me to come in. I wasn't keen, but I decided that this was as good a time to end the relationship as any, so I followed him. And when he realised not only was I still pregnant but also that I wanted to finish things with him, well, you know the rest of the story."

"What are you going to do?"

"Honestly?"

Jules nodded.

"I don't know."


End file.
